by JG Faherty
She was born with the power to cure. Now she’s developed the power to kill.
Leah DeGarmo has the power to cure with just a touch. But with her gift comes a dark side: Whatever she takes in she has to pass on, or suffer it herself. Now a sadistic criminal has discovered what she can do and he’ll stop at nothing to control her. He makes a mistake, though, when he kills the man she loves, triggering a rage inside her that releases a new power she didn’t know she had: the ability to kill. Transformed into a demon of retribution, Leah resurrects her lover and embarks on a mission to destroy her enemies. The only question is, does she control her power or does it control her?
The Cure
JG Faherty
Dedication
For Andrea, who, like me, hates how the furry ones we cherish never have enough time with us in this world.
Thank you’s go to the usual suspects: family and friends, always. Rena, Patrick, Erinn, Peter, Chantal, Stephen – for sharp eyes, sound advice, and a helping hand, I thank you all! And to the amazing staff at Samhain, Don, the editors and proofreaders, the artists – as always, you make me so much better.
And to all the animal owners out there. Love and enjoy them while you can, and treat them like family. Adopt from shelters. And support the organizations that strive to put an end to cruelty and abandonment.
Part One
In the Beginning
Today is the first day of the rest of your life.
—Anonymous
Chapter One
Fifteen minutes before she saved a man’s life, committed murder and started a chain reaction of events she could never have imagined, even in her worst nightmares, the only thing on Leah DeGarmo’s mind was a hamburger and French fries.
It had been years since she last ventured into a McDonald’s—or any other fast-food restaurant—and after a particularly bad morning at work, her cravings had reached the point where she couldn’t ignore them any longer.
“I’m taking lunch,” she said to Chastity Summers, as she hung up her white lab coat and headed for the front door of her veterinary clinic. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Okay, Doctor D.” Chastity waved, never looking up from her computer screen. She was busy entering the data on the last patient of the morning, a twenty-year-old beagle in remarkably perfect health. At one time Smokey Two had suffered from cataracts and liver disease, but he’d managed to beat them both. His owner, Tanya Weston, always told people Smokey Two was a walking advertisement for Leah’s skills as a veterinarian.
Opening the door to her three-year-old Toyota, Leah felt a pang of sadness in her heart. Smokey Two couldn’t keep it up much longer. Dogs rarely lived past twenty. She wiped tears from suddenly damp eyes. It would break Tanya’s heart when her dog finally passed away.
She glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure she hadn’t smudged her makeup. People always said her eyes were like windows to her emotions, changing from hazel to brighter green when she was happy or excited, and to a murky brownish green when she felt sad or depressed.
Today there was almost no green at all, and the dark color looked odd against the glowing backdrop of blonde hair flowing down to her shoulders in waves that were always on the verge of turning unmanageable. Even her face looked pale beneath the deep summer tan.
“Get a grip on yourself,” she told her reflection. “It’s too nice a day to wallow in regrets.”
The warm September day helped push her melancholy away, and Leah decided to treat herself to a greasy cheeseburger and fries. A determined smile on her face, she pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward McDonald’s.
Leah opened the heavy glass door and entered a different world, one where the air dripped with oil, steam and fat-laden odors that simultaneously repulsed and excited her.
There’s something about a McDonald’s that reminds you of being a kid. Not to mention the dopamine spikes triggered by the smell and taste of hot grease and fried meats.
Why is it the foods that are the worst for you are always the ones that taste the best?
The lunch-hour crowd filled the space in front of the counter. As she waited her turn in line, Leah struggled to read all the choices on the menu board.
I’ve never even seen half those meals before. Guess that’s what happens when you make an effort to eat healthy. I didn’t think McDonald’s could change so much in three years!
Luckily, the basics still held their place on the menu, and when her turn came Leah ordered a Quarter Pounder with cheese, large fries and large Diet Coke. While she waited for her food, she went to the condiments bar and grabbed napkins, ketchup and a straw. Her one task completed, she let her vision roam around the crowded room. She couldn’t help noticing the police officer standing a few people behind her in line.
He doesn’t look like he eats here any more often than I do. Leah admired his tall, wiry frame and the way his brown hair fell across his forehead. With his dark, intelligent eyes and bright-white smile, he looked more like a politician or maybe a banker than a cop.
Smile? Oh shit, he’s smiling at me! He saw me staring at him. Leah turned away, feeling her face grow hot. The counter girl returned with her order and Leah grabbed the tray, nearly spilling the contents onto the floor as she hurried off to a table before the man could say anything to her.
“Christ, I can’t believe I did that,” she whispered to herself. “Get a grip, Leah. You’re not fifteen anymore.”
She took a long sip of her soda, hoping the cold liquid would drive the heat from her cheeks. Still, she couldn’t help thinking about the cute, half-quizzical, half-admiring smile the cop had shown her, and she peeked to the side to watch him pump ketchup into a little white corrugated cup.
Straw still in her mouth, she tried to push away the particularly graphic thoughts all the pumping and squirting created in her head.
I guess it really has been too long. She followed her rueful thought with a quick duck of her head as the object of her fantasy glanced in her direction.
“Shut up or I start shooting!”
The shouted words made Leah look up again just as people started screaming.
A man at the counter had a gun aimed at one of the cashiers who was crying and holding her trembling hands in the air.
“Hurry up!” The gunman’s order acted like a signal for everyone to move. People fell to the ground or ran for the doors, and one of the other cashiers, a man in his thirties, darted back into the kitchen.
The would-be thief grabbed a nearby woman and pulled her tight against his cracked and aging black motorcycle jacket, his crazed eyes darting back and forth. His hostage tried to struggle, but he clamped a hand over her mouth and put the large, evil-looking handgun to her head.
“Gimme the goddamn money now, or you’re gonna have brains all over your counter!” he told the two remaining cashiers in a voice as frenzied as his movements. The two teenage girls clung to each other, eyes shut, crying uncontrollably.
Leah dropped her cheeseburger, the sudden spastic opening of her fingers the only movement she seemed capable of making. He’s going to shoot that woman. She knew it as surely as she knew that he was high on drugs, or that the two girls would never get past their fear and give him the money. Ohmigod, he’s gonna…
A quick movement interrupted her thought as the police officer threw his tray of food in the direction of the gunman. The tray clattered on the floor and soda sprayed everywhere, distracting the man from his prisoner.
“Police! Drop the gun!” the cop shouted, no longer smiling. He squinted down the barrel of his service pistol at the heavily bearded robber, his dark eyes cold and dangerous.
“I’
ll kill her, man.”
“If you do, you’ll die right after her,” the young officer said. Sweat stains bloomed in the armpits of his previously immaculate uniform, but neither his gun nor his voice wavered.
“Not if I kill you first.” Pushing the woman to the side, the man turned the gun and fired two shots. The twin reports broke the spell that held the remaining patrons captive, and once more the air filled with screams as the remaining customers rushed for the exits.
The officer let out a cry of pain and fell backwards into the condiment counter. A wet, red smear followed him as he slowly slid down the white plastic to the floor.
“No!” Leah jumped up and ran to the officer, insanely hoping it was just ketchup dripping onto the floor, too familiar with violent wounds to be fooled into thinking it was anything but blood.
“Get the fuck away from him!” the shooter said to her, but she ignored him, already placing her hands on either side of the crimson flower blooming in the center of the man’s shirt.
Amazingly, the officer—Officer Carrera, she read on his tag as she ripped open his shirt—opened his eyes and looked at her. “Get out of here,” he tried to say, but the words disappeared in a wet hiss, informing Leah that one of his lungs had collapsed. From the amount of blood pooling around the body, it seemed likely at least one major blood vessel, probably the vena cava, was ruptured as well.
“You’re gonna be okay,” she told him, pressing her hands against the wound. “Lie still.” The familiar warmth surged through her, followed by a sharp pain as if she’d touched a live wire. Even though she was prepared for the shock, it still made her twitch. Under her hands, the officer’s body bucked as if jolted by a defibrillator. Leah started to tell him again that he’d be all right, but just then a rough hand grabbed her by the back of her shirt and pulled her away, nearly choking her in the process.
“Are you deaf, bitch? I told you to stay the fuck away.” She looked up and saw the gunman aiming his pistol at her. “Now you can die alongside your boyfriend.”
Without thinking, Leah grabbed the man’s leg, sliding her hand up under his pants to touch his skin. Another spark, but this one brought relief, a coolness, as if a poison had been sucked out of her body.
His eyes wide and surprised, the man opened his mouth to yell but it turned into a choking gasp. Blood filled his mouth and ran over his lips. He stumbled away and his finger twitched on the trigger as he collapsed, sending a bullet whining past Leah’s head to chip the tile floor before ricocheting away.
He landed hard, his eyes already blank and lifeless, a red stain spreading on the front of his shirt.
Oh shit, Leah, you’ve really done it this time. The thought forced her into action.
“Hurry, move him over to the counter,” she ordered Officer Carrera. She grabbed one of the gunman’s arms and pulled him towards the small island holding the ketchup and napkins.
Carrera rose unsteadily to his feet, then put out a hand to stop her. “What the hell happened?”
“We have to make it look like he got shot over here. Now help me!”
Carrera stood there for a moment, fingering the hole in his uniform. Then he grabbed the man’s other arm and helped her slide the body over until it was roughly in the center of the blood and ketchup already staining the floor.
“Lady, will you tell me what’s going on? I was shot, and now I’m fine and we’ve got a dead gunman.”
Sirens sounded outside, reminding Leah they didn’t have time to talk.
“I’ll explain everything later,” she promised him. “Please, just trust me.” She sat down on the floor a few feet away, preparing herself to play the part of the terrified witness.
I won’t have to pretend too hard, but what am I more scared of? Almost being shot or having my secret exposed?
Crouched behind a nearby garbage can, Emilio Suarez watched the events unfold in front of him like some bizzaro drug-induced hallucination. Only this was no trip or flashback. He’d really seen the young woman cure the cop, good as new after taking at least one to the chest. Strange shit indeed.
But that didn’t compare to what happened next. She’d touched the shooter, and, next thing you know, he’s lying dead on the floor. Emilio wanted to see what happened next, but decided the smart thing to do was get out before the place was swarming with cops.
And to think, he’d left Manhattan because he thought he’d be safer hitting houses in the suburbs than apartments in the city. Go figure.
While the woman and the cop moved the dead body, Emilio lowered himself to the ground and crawled to the back exit by the restrooms, where he pulled open the door and ghosted out before anyone could see him.
He had a feeling he knew someone who would pay major dinero for this story.
By the time Leah finished giving her statement and returned to the animal hospital, her body was awhirl in a weird mixture of exhaustion and excitement. She’d already called Chastity and explained the situation, telling her to reschedule her remaining appointments until later that afternoon or to another day.
She pushed through the double doors into the cool reception area, where she found three patients waiting for her: Tim Damara with his five-year-old poodle, Sammy, June Watson and her ancient Pekinese named Muffins, and a young girl she didn’t recognize with what looked like a small tabby cat in a carry box.
“Jesus, I guess it was too much to hope for that I could come back and catch my breath,” Leah whispered to Chastity, as she went behind the glass-fronted counter and pulled on her white lab coat.
“You should have seen it before. I think you’ll need the rest of the week to catch up,” the vet tech said, rolling her eyes. Her frazzled expression and mussed hair testified to how busy the clinic had been. “I rescheduled seven or eight appointments. The rest of them said today was the only day they could see you.” Chastity handed her the first chart.
“Of course.” Leah closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Leah, are you sure you’re all right? You just saw someone get shot, for God’s sake. Maybe you should go home.”
“No, I’ll be fine. Let’s not keep them waiting.” Opening the door between the reception area and the hallway, Leah called out, “Mister Damara? You can bring Sammy to exam room one.”
“Good night, Leah.”
Leah looked up from her paperwork. Chastity stood at the office door, pocketbook in hand.
“What time is it?”
Chastity laughed. “Nine thirty. Go home. Get some sleep. Your first appointment isn’t until ten tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Chas. You were a huge help today. I couldn’t have done it without you.” She meant it too. The young woman had skipped lunch and stayed late so that Leah could concentrate on her patients.
Chastity waved a goodbye. “I’ll remember that when it’s time for my Christmas bonus!” she called out as she walked away.
Leah returned to her files. She should go home and get some sleep; God knew she was exhausted. But the files had to be updated just right in order to ensure everything looked normal. Tim Damara’s poodle had been no problem. It had chewed some shoes and had a ball of leather lodged in the large intestine, just above the anus. She’d administered an enema and told him to watch the dog carefully over the next six hours. If the mass didn’t exit on its own, the dog would require some minor surgery.
June Watson’s Pekinese was another story. The dog was already eighteen years old. Leah had nursed it through liver disease and two bouts of cancer. Now it had some type of tumor on its spine, too embedded to operate on. She’d been tempted to Cure it anyway; after what she’d been through that day, the thought of anything dying brought a sick feeling to her stomach.
But the dog really deserved to exit life gracefully. Besides, how much longer could she keep it alive and healthy without someone, especially Mrs. Watson, becoming suspicious?
She couldn’t Cure them both; she had nowhere to pass the darkness to at the moment. Mrs. Watson had two more dogs at home, one of which she’d bought last year when Muffins developed the previous set of tumors. She was prepared for her dog to pass on.
Still, Leah was practically in tears herself when she broke the news to Mrs. Watson.
“I’m sorry, June,” she’d said, after passing the cat’s illness to Muffins. “Here are some painkillers for Muffins. Take her home and make her comfortable. I don’t think she’s got more than a day or two.”
The old woman had nodded. “I thought so. It came on so fast. Thank you, Dr. DeGarmo.”
Now, looking at Snuggles’s chart, Leah tried to figure out what to write. The symptoms were already listed, typed in when Chastity set up the chart.
What else presents like this?
Coming up with a diagnosis after a Cure was always the hardest part. It had to sound believable. You couldn’t explain a tumor away as a cut or bruise; you couldn’t pretend the symptoms of rabies or feline leukemia were simply a case of stomach upset. Since opening her practice ten years ago, Leah had become an expert at dissembling on charts. And to her patients.
A large mass on the body? No, it’s not a tumor, just a swelling from a bee sting.
Vomiting and bleeding from the mouth? Food poisoning.
Hit by a car? Multiple organ damage, broken bones? Don’t worry, it’s worse than it looks. He’ll be fine in no time.
Her favorite was the time someone had brought in a yellow Lab who’d gotten its leg caught in a car door. There’d been no hiding the greenstick fracture—the bone had protruded almost an inch from the torn flesh, and the dog had been howling like a banshee.