Psycho Candy

by Steven Hunter

  It was her soul.

  She looked again towards the green eyed girl and smiled, and as she met Faith's eyes she could feel the empath reaching out towards her with whatever lay within her, and soon the feeling was shared.

  "Can I see?" Faith asked, shuffling across the few feet of space which separated her from Candy.

  "Yes," said Candy. “Mind the sick.”

  Candy held out the artwork to Faith who grasped it gently and stared with awe.

  "What does it say?" asked the green eyed girl.

  Beneath the picture was a series of letters. At first glance they were hard to make out, as if the writing itself was from a time and place so foreign that despite it being in English it was still difficult for Faith to discern what was written there.

  Candy however had noticed straight away, "It says, TO MY CHAMPION. Does that answer your question?"

  Minutes later and Candy found herself sucking on a cigarette that she didn’t remember lighting.

  "I feel like your mother Faith. I wish I could visit your world. I was born for Dizor. I’ve got medical practice with drug and killing experience."

  "It’s not all just killing and drugs Candy. There’s survival-"

  "I’ll take out Reckwick. You know I thought about it.."

  "You already thought about taking out Reckwick-?"

  "When your mother described her love for your earth mother. It made me feel something that I liked. Not exactly goodness, but at least fairness. I don't give myself the luxury of believing in a happy ending but they say hell is where the heroes go and I wondered then if perhaps all this talk of redemption and salvation was just another way of making me comply, if you were manipulating me with your abilities, fucking with my feelings. Then I realized it didn't matter. That's when I decided I wouldn't come after you when I got out, that I would help you. Just because I could, and it was something I could still do. Without some purpose to my breath and thought, I think I would have accepted more of my insanity by now. And that would only have made me doubt the fact that everything that's driven me to this state was real."

  Faith nodded, and Candy wondered if she should in fact just snap the empath's neck, what it would be like to stare into those dead eyes. She felt this was a certain knowledge she would like to visit, yet resisted the impulse. Killing is feeling without direction, she thought to herself.

  She did not know the outcome of any murder she committed, and she wondered if she would actually feel Faith dying if she were to kill her. Faith looked at her with sudden unease and Candy smiled, yet did not try to disguise her thoughts.

  She felt then the balance of power had in some way been restored. She had learned to create an uncertainty in others. Always keep them guessing, as the great Zorro had once said.

  The acid was wearing down and Candy felt like being alone. Faith smiled again, like she had sensed the passing of death beyond the doorway, mixed with again a feeling of gratitude towards Candy, and Candy knew this was to somehow placate her and in its way it worked.

  "You could get us in. To the fight that is," Faith's enthusiasm washed over Candy like a warm rain, leaving the killer feeling involuntarily cheered like her blood was being somehow being tickled.

  "It’s getting us all out that’s the hard part. Getting in is easy. I’ve got to go there in the morning anyway."

  Candy lapsed into silence. Faith did the same.

  "We don’t just need you here, Candy. We want you."

  And it was true. She had felt it, just not recognised the feeling of being wanted. Not for violent crimes against society for a change, but for being herself, and she decided to ignore any cynicism she felt. She was being asked to belong and she realized that this was not a bad thing, despite the possible motives of those involved.

  "I used to want forgiveness Faith. Before that I wanted excitement. Now I just want to be."

  "You should talk to mum, Candy. She’s practically a peace treaty, a psychopath and a psychologist in one."

  "Maybe I will Faith. She's a good woman. She's going to help me with something; I actually need to talk to you about this."

  "Well don't be coy. Spill."

  "We need to rescue Brekin. Your mother says she's game. I just wondered who else in your party would be suitable for a little breaking and entry."

  "Well, I suppose we're all due you. All except Marcus. But I'm sure he'll help none the less. He is a part of our cause now."

  Candy lay back and closed her eyes. In her spiritual dimension the light shimmered blue and she wondered how so much beauty could exist alongside so much evil. For the most part she wondered about herself. Was she evil? She was fighting horrific things, yet she was a violent killer. Still who else could play her role? Perhaps it took one evil to kill another, yet everything she was had been nurtured from good. The blue light reached out and touched her, and as particles began speeding faster and faster down her neuronal pathways and the blue turned to a shimmering white, she realized that it was all just a game of sorts.

  A game with no name.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARCUS MEETS HIS MAKER

  He had awoken that previous evening in John's apartment, naked and again human. John and Faith were still sleeping, no doubt as a result of copious amounts of opium. He was about to shake Faith, to wake her up, when he heard a voice. It was coming from the living room, where he had used the pen before drinking the blood, and it was softly calling his name.

  “Marcus... Marcus...”

  For a second he was overcome with the most terrible fear, however as the voice continued, he gradually felt a lull in his anxiety and a peaceful trance washed over him. He turned again towards Faith and John, yet both were lost in their own respective pipe dreams.

  “Marcus, come to me...”

  Marcus did not hesitate this time and walked towards the hallway, uncaring nor even really aware of his nakedness. All the while the voice continued calling his name.

  He entered the living room and despite the gloominess of the room, lit only by an oil lamp in one corner of the room, he instantly made out a shape sitting in the chair nearest to him.

  The chair was an antique affair, high backed, made of red suede held in place at the arms by bronze rivets. It had its back to Marcus, as did the person sitting in it. As Marcus moved closer to the chair, whatever trance he had been under lifted and he suddenly did not want to be anywhere near it.

  “Who, who, are you?” stammered Marcus, the fear in his voice apparent. He was unsure how he knew this, but he was sure the sound of his terror had excited the being in the chair.

  “I have many names, under many guises, although from the book I found in your home you probably know me as the Walking Skin of the council of the eight.”

  Masses of adrenaline surged throughout Marcus's body, signals from his brain telling him to flee, to go, run as fast as he could. Yet all he could think about was his cat Charlie who had died at a young age. From some inexplicable reason Charlie had stopped eating one day, and no matter what Marcus put in his food bowl, be it canned meats or fish or freshly cooked chicken; the cat simply would not eat. It was as if the cat had simply lost the will to live, and had in due course died, leaving behind a bag of bones and a massive veterinary bill. It was not until Marcus snapped out of the memory that he realised he was sitting, face to face with the being that had summoned him. The being (it was certainly no man) was in one sense the most beautiful Marcus had ever seen, yet paradoxically this extraordinary visual aspect was what made the creature in front of him so difficult to look at. Despite the perfect cheekbones, and well crafted nose and chin, there was something so revolting to it all that made Marcus wish he could look away.

  Yet his eyes were trapped to those of the 'Skin walker', whose own eyes glowed with redness that Marcus imagined mirrored the fires of hell he had been conditioned to believe in as a child.

  “How did I get here?” asked Marcus, the words tumbling from his mouth like dice from the gamblers hand.

>   “You walked.”

  “But I don't remember walking. I was standing... over there.”

  “I called you. I could sense your fear and I wished your audience quicker than you would give it so I took you to a happy place inside.”

  “What? What does that mean? A happy place?”

  “I simply made you think of something wonderful. A good time in your life, to distract your mind whilst I called your body. I trust it was a nice memory?”

  Marcus thought again of Charlie. How he had looked in the end. Nice? Could this being even comprehend nice?

  “It was my cat.”

  “Lovely. I'm told they are quite delicious. So it seems we have something in common from the off.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Food. We both enjoy the taste of fresh meat. Perhaps we could share a cat one day together? Tell me, how long does one rear one?”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Please Marcus do not be sorry. Perhaps this is all a bit too much to discuss domestic delicacies. There being more than one way to eat a cat as you humans say.”

  “I'm... no it's skin a cat. You skin a cat.”

  “That makes sense. I remember them as hairy creatures, skinning would be a necessary part of it.”

  “There is more than one way to skin a cat, is what I mean. It's a...” Marcus gazed over at the handsome figure who sat, his finger folded under his chin in a manner which left Marcus in no doubt that his new friend The Skin Walker was listening quite in earnest. “Forget it. Another time. We'll talk about it another time.” It occurred to Marcus what he had just said. He was arranging dinner fucking dates with this thing. “What is it that you wanted?” he finished, as calmly as he could.”

  “Simply to meet. After all it was you who summoned me.

  “I didn't realise. I just wanted to become a werewolf. I'm

  sorry, I-”

  “Please Marcus, stop apologising. You are the first in almost four hundred years to use my rite. I am actually quite flattered.”

  Marcus found himself smiling at this despite himself; yet there was a nagging feeling that it was the other way around. That he was the one being flattered. And that he still did not know the reason why.

  “It is tradition for any who use our magik to be met with on a personal basis. That way, we can see what service we can be to one and other.”

  “I'm not sure I understand?”

  “I gifted you with the possibility of endless life. It is

  true you can be killed, but not by any mortal. I suppose in a sense you could say you owe me.”

  “I don't understand. What do you want from me?”

  “I WANT YOU TO GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME YOU PSYCHO!” screamed the woman.

  The room was poorly lit, a motel room.

  “GET AWAY, WILL YOU ALL JUST GET AWAY, IT WAS JUST A FUCKING DREAM, CAN'T YOU GET THAT INTO YOUR HEAD I AM NOT FUCKING HER!”

  And the anger which came over Marcus as he began to pummel the woman, his fists gaining strength and weight, his punches no longer just bruising, but smashing into the woman's face, her cheekbones exploding with a right and left hook as she fell backwards onto the bed. He found that tears were streaming down his face, and droplets of released rage found purchase amongst the bloodied face of the woman. She let out a moan. Her face was now concave, her nose and eyes no longer of any use, her teeth missing and her mouth caved inwards. She let out another moan.

  “What the fuck-” said Marcus.

  The woman made another sound, and Marcus thought again that she was expressing the suffering he had delivered to her. But no; it was laughter. Pitiful perhaps in volume, but laughter none the less. This enraged him further and he brought the three middle fingers of his left hand, extended to their fullest to her throat. There was a crunch of bones and the woman let out her last breath. There was no doubt about it this time. She was dead. Marcus started at himself in the mirror, a part of him fumbling for recognition of his reflection. He did recognise the person staring back at him yet the image did not belong to him. How many woman had he killed now? At least five. From the mirror his gaze travelled downwards to a newspaper on the dresser on which the mirror sat. The date was August the eleventh, 2010.

  But wait; something wasn't right.

  He looked again to the mirror and the red eyes were staring back at him – “Anything is possible for you now, Marcus. Now that you work for me.”

  And he had suddenly awoken, again naked at the feet of Faith. It had all just been a dream.

  He was sure.

  It had all just been a dream.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SUFFERING ENDS WITH SUFFERING – THE SAME AS IT BEGINS

  The dying light from the street lamps above drowned the pavements in an almost prophetic red. It seemed to Candy to sum up what lay ahead, and she wondered as she was prone to do if there was something sexual to her kills. She caught the Indian watching her and it seemed almost to be his question. Yet he merely let his eyes drift, and Candy realized it must just be her reason again trying to fathom the cause of her enjoyment for such things.

  Nobody seemed to want to walk outside of the group, each recognizing the pace that kept them together as a necessity, and steps were lengthened or shortened to accommodate this. To a person watching they might have said "There is a group moving with purpose." Which they were. Candy felt more however that the purpose would have been useless without each person’s resolve. Only Marcus looked unsure of his place, as if this was not only an imposition but one he felt forced into understanding.

  Resolve, thought Candy, It doesn't suite the French.

  Wanda answered the door in a silk gown, her breasts slightly revealed, her arms bruised and dotted with tracks. She held the keys up to Candy, "Hope you don't mind if I don't invite you in. In fact I hope this is the last we see of each other. The hold you have on me was one thing when I had something to live for. I don't have much now. All I'm saying Candy is you took from me, and now I think you've taken enough."

  Candy took the keys from Wanda and smiled, "Life is dying Wanda. You've gotta expect some damage. Whoever said we live happily ever after," Candy reached into her pocket and withdrew an envelope, "there's enough gear in there to last you a year. And it's pure, so you'll want to cut it; unless you've got a death wish?"

  Candy expected some caustic retort, perhaps even a goodbye of sorts. Wanda however just laughed and closed the door. She went upstairs and loaded the needle with an extra couple of grams.

  After a minute or so she closed her eyes.

  She never opened them again.

  The hospital entrance brought back instant memories of pain for Candy. Even enshrouded in company she felt alone in its presence, a private fear, like an unwanted privilege, and one she could not break.

  The guard in the gatehouse came out with his hand on his gun. "Visiting hours are over a long time ago people. Sorry but you'll have to turn back."

  Candy walked right up to the man. "I belong here apparently."

  The security guard, who remembered Candy's exploits, nearly fainted, "How- why-?" he reached instinctively for his gun just as Candy bit his face and his hands came up to the fresh wound where skin once was.

  Her arm was quick in getting to his holster and she pushed the gun into his chest. The group behind her was watching in silence. Only Jan was smiling. The man backed up against his booth.

  "Get on your knees."

  "Jesus. Please lady. I never hurt you. Any of you."

  Jan whispered something to Faith and she suddenly looked away, tugging on Marcus's arm. However the wolf-man was enthralled as Candy withdrew her knife and slit the man's throat.

  Candy giggled. "We're in people. And we've got ourselves a gun."

  "Holy shit," John muttered as Marcus fought the urge to lick the blood.

  Candy threw the gun to Jan, who caught it with ease and took her place beside Candy, who entered the booth and threw a switch. The gates to the institution swung open.

>   "Looks like we're going to the fucking madhouse," said John.

  Marcus nodded his agreement and turned to Faith.

  "Is she actually same?" he whispered to the green eyed girl.

  "Eh. I think she's just good at what she does."

  John just shook his head and stared at the body of the fallen man, who was lying in a pool of his own blood. She isn't sane, he thought. She's only good at what she does because her mind is fucking crazy. No one here is sane. Fucking walking with a Dizorian, a werewolf, an empath dimensional half-cast and a serial killer. Sanity now would be a mistake.

  Jan and Candy could be seen just up ahead in the darkness.

  "Hurry up," was Candy's last command.

  They found her at the door. "When we get in here we're going to have to fight. Faith did you bring the weapons?"

  Faith blinked as if snapping out of a dream. She nodded and went into her knapsack.

  From inside she removed a dagger which she handed to Marcus. The wolf looked at it with a mixture of confusion and horror. She made to hand John the same but the Indian shook his head and reached into the interior of his jacket.

  "I brought my own," he said pulling out a small axe.

  He hadn't used it in years. The sight of the blood against the sharpness brought back a sudden sting, and for an instant he was there again. The axe still contained traces of the memory, a red reminder that stole his breath as a dead reality set in. Then he exhaled, except his breath held the stale yet familiar taste of renewed longing. He looked around him and smiled, eight eyes meeting his, each gaze with Its own particular unspoken curiosity and Faith nodded and placed the knife back in the bag. She withdrew a small gun, a white plated revolver.