Galefire II : Holy Avengers

by Kenny Soward

  “My daughter.”

  “I screwed up, Mama. I screwed up bad this time. I should've known Anderson was a shithead. Should have smelled that pile under my nose.”

  Her mother gave her a grim smile. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Bess. The Lord is testing you. He’s trying to see what you’re made of.”

  “But, Mama. Haven’t I done enough?”

  “It’s never enough, honey. Never.”

  Chapter 4

  Bess shuddered back to awareness, her head feeling squeezed. Her left arm ached. Her calf was sore from the hypodermic needle. She opened her mouth with a smacking sound. Then she made the mistake of swallowing. Dead dry.

  Okay, not good. Now where are you?

  A table beneath her. Hard and slick, probably metal. Nothing to show her captors cared a damn about her comfort. And it was wet beneath her, something soaked into her clothing. Had she pissed herself? Was it blood? Her head ached, but when she tried to touch it, her hand only made it six inches before snapping taught. She let out a soft sigh and lifted her feet. Damn, those were bound, too.

  Bess opened her eyes only to slam them shut again as bright light beamed from the ceiling. She took a deep breath and exhaled. Tensed herself, and then jerked against her bonds, twisting to see if she could break them. No good, but for what it was worth, when one limb extended forward the others pulled taut. That meant that her hands and feet were not individually bound but part of a larger restraining mechanism.

  That was something.

  Voices reached her from the next room so she quieted her anger, let the pain in her head do its thing, and tried to listen.

  “How much does it need?” That was Anderson’s voice, for sure. Bess pursed her lips. She wanted to punch him in the face as soon as possible.

  A deep, resonant voice replied. “Just enough to absorb her essence. And then there’s the incubation period. Two days before it will be ready to go free into the world and cause chaos for the God Lovers.”

  Anderson laughed. “They'll never know what hit them.”

  “Don’t underestimate the Holy Avenger filth. They’re crazy in their faith, and that makes them an industrious, dangerous bunch. You see how hard it was to steal their codes.”

  “Yeah. A real bitch.”

  “And let me remind you how close you came to fucking that last bit up. I lost some good hoarbeasts.”

  Anderson responded in a casual tone. “Well, let’s discuss your fuckups. You couldn’t get rid of that fade ripper gang on the West Side. What are they called? The Eighth Street Gang? And now they’re running around loose. I have my captive. Where's yours?”

  The voices came closer. Footsteps, too. One, a lighter tread. The other, heavy boots. Bess squirmed involuntarily in her bonds.

  “Watch your fucking mouth,” the deeper voice boomed. “That group, they can fight, and I didn't know one was a dragon voice.”

  “That’s tough luck about the dragon voice. Those assholes must've been hiding for awhile.”

  “Yeah, a few hundred years. But that’s my problem, not yours. Anyway, I guess you did okay today. I’ll put in a word with the Turu Tukte. The Mistress rewards those who do good work, and we’ll need people like you soon.”

  Turu Tukte?

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Now, when we’re done here, I want you to find the Holy Avenger’s laptop and get it scoured. Have Angie Roman take a look.”

  “I’ve got her car keys. It’s probably in there.”

  Bess forced her eyes open against the blinding light. Her vision was more adjusted this time and she could make out one of those garage lamps hanging from the ceiling, the metal shade magnifying the brightness into a tight beam. Turning her head, she got a better view. The walls ran up 4 feet before angling inward, like an attic. Reminded her of her playroom in her old house when she was young. Only there were no toys for her.

  She was the toy.

  She craned her neck. A brass vat rested on the floor in the far corner, clear tubes the width of her index finger springing from the top. Variously colored substances circulated through them, some appearing as thick as blood while others were semi-opaque or shaded amber.

  Images of old-fashioned whiskey stills hung on the walls along with antique technical documents that could have been instructions for making moonshine, only these involved a human element, a Frankenstein’s book of brewing.

  Someone moaned on her right. Bess turned her head, eyes tracing the tubes that ran along the ceiling and walls and down to places she couldn’t see, the entire works neatly wound and labeled. Some of them passed through other pieces of equipment, including what appeared to be tankless water heaters.

  Some of the tubes terminated into needles piercing the veins of a young man pinned to the angled wall, everything held in place by dirty medical tape. He was shirtless, pants ripped, and missing shoes and socks.

  His eyes were glazed, his skin sallow and sunken. Closer to dead than alive.

  Bess swallowed and turned her head away, wondering about the ache in her own arm. She was afraid to look. The pain was familiar, reminding her of a doctor's office. Her eyes inched past her feet to settle on the thing causing her discomfort. Just below her elbow, a pinkish, slick-wet proboscis pierced her brachial artery. Where it entered her skin, blood leaked out around the edges, drops dribbling on the table.

  That explained the wetness.

  She traced the pinkish sticker to a fat, slug-like thing resting on a pushcart. It had a tapered shell of white chitin. Eyes stared back at her. Pink eyes, nearly human. As fathomless and content as a newborn suckling a teat.

  A dreadful moan escaped her, replaced by a murmured prayer. “Lord, I am Your humble servant. Please cleanse me with Your saving light, for I have sinned. Lord, I am Your humble servant. Please cleanse me with Your saving light, for I have sinned.” She repeated this mantra over and over, nerves calming as the words sifted between her lips.

  The footsteps entered the room and stopped near her feet.

  A chuckle came from there, and Bess tore her attention away from the suckling creature to fall on a tall man dressed in black jeans, boots, and a dark jacket. He was at least six feet four with his head shaved on the sides and a thick swath of blond hair combed back. His face was handsome and square, a strong jaw and ice blue eyes set deep into their sockets.

  Krag the Whorchal.

  Anderson stood to Krag’s right, his previous nervousness replaced with smarmy confidence, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He’d gotten her, and he knew it.

  “I will kill you in the Lord’s name—” Bess choked out the words.

  “Highly doubtful,” Anderson crooned, taking a drag from a freshly lit cigarette. He exhaled, “You’re done and you know it.”

  Krag’s head turned. “I told you no smoking in the distillery. Get rid of that fucking cigarette or use the window.”

  Anderson shrugged, then winked at Bess. "I won't be long." He exited to the adjoining room.

  Krag gazed at the thing sucking at Bess’s arm. “That’s enough, you bloated creature. Let her go. Jedi!”

  The thing’s eyelids fluttered, then it started to draw its sucker out of her vein. The sharp, uncomfortable pain caused Bess’s chest to heave and a thin whine to escape her throat. She hated needles to begin with, and this was just gross. Having that dirty thing insider her, fishing around —her mind rattled off at least ten known diseases and bacterial infections fade rippers carried with them from Hell.

  She wanted to throw up but was too fixated on the creature’s proboscis pulling free. If no one clamped the wound she’d be spraying whatever remained of herself all over the floor. But then a slick shadow moved past Krag and placed a folded pack of gauze over the spot just in time. A strip of medical tape spun around her arm to hold it in place.

  It was the same guy who’d injected her on the steps, the guy she'd smashed in the face. Jedi. Bess grinned at the piece of cotton stuck up his left nostril and
dried blood crusting his scruffy goatee. "Hurt much?"

  Unfazed, he did one more loop of tape for good measure. “Don’t let this slip. You’ll bleed out.”

  “No shit.”

  “Not that you'll be alive that much longer.” Jedi shrugged, wrapped his arms beneath the thing that had been sucking on her, and lifted it.

  Its portly, cat-sized body mewled.

  “Be careful with that,” Krag warned.

  Jedi nodded, his eyes flashing from Krag to Bess, then scurried out with the well-fed creature.

  That business completed, Krag moved closer, pushing the smaller table aside, to stand beside Bess. The guy was muscular, huge. Looked like he could stop a train.

  “What do you think of my distillery?”

  Bess gazed up and around, taking in everything for the second time, not necessarily because of Krag’s question, but because she was searching for escape options.

  To keep him distracted, she said, “I think you’re a sickness. You need to be purged from the face of the Earth. You blaspheme the Lord and the life He created. I won’t let you get away with this.”

  Krag chuckled. “Nonsense. Your order is weak and getting weaker, and you're strapped to a table. Your god doesn’t care. He has other things to do. And you humans are just bags of delicious meat for us to enjoy.” He held out his hands as if showing off a beloved hobby to an old friend. “This is where I process my victims. Extraordinary, don’t you think? I grew bored with hunting your kind. Even tried lions and bears for awhile, but nothing challenged me. So, I built this refinery and worked on my brewing skills. Best decision I ever made. Keeps me occupied. I use those (he pointed at the tankless water heaters) to keep the lines nice and warm.” Then he effected an over-exaggerated hillbilly accent. “To keep everything fresh and finger lickin’ good, y’all might say.”

  Bess put a clamp on her disgust. This was only interesting for two reasons. One, to gather as much information as she could for the ECC in the event she escaped. Two, because humoring the giant might just keep her alive a little longer.

  “My victims are like assorted fruits in a supermarket,” he went on. “Sometimes I prefer an older, homeless gentleman, his blood rich and smoky. Other times, a nice young runaway no one will miss. Fun to play with and fun to savor later in my cup. I infuse them with brandy or fine bourbon before they pass. No good adding the ingredients after they're dead. The body has a way of blending the flavors like nothing else.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do? Process me?”

  Krag’s upper lip curled. “Oh no. Your blood soured the day you accepted God into it. The moment you had that holy slop poured over your baby head. Vatican blood tastes worse than vinegar. And trust me when I say there’s nothing on this planet to sweeten it. I’ve tried.”

  “Why don’t you go back to Hell where you belong? Might be less boring there.”

  Krag grunted. “I’m not that desperate. Earth is the easy life.” The giant stepped back, pointing at the kegs and casks along the wall. “Here, these containers hold assorted wines and whiskeys, these others, various minerals I need to keep me healthy and fit.” He made a flexing motion with his arms, his broad chest firming up and then loosening.

  “I’m just a small batch operation.” Krag released a single laugh as he patted one of his wooden barrels. “This is barrel-aged bourbon straight from the Woodford Reserve. I know someone—”

  “Screw you and your operation.”

  “—who works in the barreling department. Procures for me one of these each month. I get my victims drunk, let them soak before they expire. They are quite happy to die for me. Reverent, sometimes. Then I fill the barrels, rotating them with old ones I have in the basement.”

  “Let me off this table, and I’ll—”

  In two strides Krag crossed the space and slapped Bess in the face, sending her head rocking against the table. Stars bloomed in her brain.

  “You Holy Avengers don’t appreciate the finer things in life. And you call us savages. Well, you’re less than savages. You’re nothing. Even you, the mighty Bess Winters. Tricked by one of your own kind.”

  Bess mumbled something. Tried to shake the stars loose. All she could do was drool, her headache reborn, steel knuckles rapping across the top of her skull.

  She was vaguely aware of Anderson reentering the room, his beady crawling over her body.

  Krag leaned over her, his chiseled face like a living statue. He put his finger through a hole in his shirt. “This burns, my dear. It was your one lucky shot for today. Lucky for you, I’m in a good mood. I won’t let Anderson play with you too long.”

  Anderson looked disappointed. “What do I do with her then?”

  “Orders were to kill her. So, kill her.”

  “Why don’t you? If I can’t play with her beforehand, it isn’t worth it to me. I’ve done my part already.”

  The whorchal shot Anderson an agitated look. “Just kill her. I have preparations to make. The Turu Tukte demands what she demands. Her tour schedule has doubled, and she’s climbing in the polls.” The big blond head shook. “The way she panders to the humans makes me sick.”

  “I’m sure she’d love to learn about your disdain for her plans.”

  Krag’s eyes narrowed at Anderson, body tensing. “You should be pissed off, too. It means our work will double, especially yours.”

  “Easy, big guy. We’re on the same side. We all serve the Turu Tukte.”

  Krag calmed. “You’re lucky I’m a nice guy. Most of my kind would have you licking the blood off their boots.”

  “Lucky me,” Anderson quipped.

  Bess half-expected the powerful whorchal to knock his head off, but he only chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Anderson. You’re a cheeky bastard but you get things done. Don’t let me come up here to find things weren’t done.”

  “Yes.”

  As the whorchal slipped past Anderson and out of the room, he gave the smaller man a firm pat on the shoulder which nearly sent him to his knees. Bess inwardly celebrated the little shit’s discomfort, but that dissolved when she saw the predatory hunger in Anderson’s eyes.

  “Right,” Anderson said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Krag was gone. He began unlacing Bess’s left boot. “Now, let’s see. I have to kill you, which doesn’t leave much time for fun. That sucks because you were so mean earlier."

  Her boot dropped to the floor with a thunk, and he started to unlace the other.

  “And you know what I do with—”

  Bess timed the kick perfectly, the tip of her right boot clipping Anderson’s jaw and sending him jerking back. That’s all she could manage with the six or eight inches of leeway she had. Still, it felt good. Damn good.

  “Ah, you fucking bitch!” Anderson suddenly had her knife in his hand, and he plunged it into her calf.

  Excruciating pain ripped up Bess’s leg and she cried out, tossing her head against the table.

  Anderson left the knife in her and favored her with a smile. When Bess stopped squirming, he finished unlacing her remaining boot, this time getting no resistance from her.

  He dropped that one on the floor, too. Thunk.

  He took each of her big toes between an index finger and thumb. Gave them a wiggle, deciding between her two feet. “You know, I love these little socks.” He was referring to Bess’s running socks, ankle high with purple trim. “Sexy, in my opinion. I’m not much of an athlete but I can sure appreciate an athlete’s firm, exquisite attributes.” His hands roamed over the top of her feet, beneath her jeans and up her shins, touching her smooth, freshly shaved legs.

  She wished she’d let herself go a couple extra days just to rob him of the pleasure.

  When his left hand reached the place where the knife pinned her jeans, he gave the blade a flick, sending pain coiling upward. Bess ground her teeth to keep from crying out. Screw giving him the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

  Give me an answer, Lord. Give me something to w
ork with here. If You don’t, I’m dead.

  Bess stopped writhing and relaxed her body, eyes focused on the ceiling.

  “Good girl. Won’t be long now. Krag said to kill you, but he won't be back for awhile. He tends to get really distracted.”

  Bess cringed as Anderson’s hands slid up her legs over her jeans until they reached the top of her thighs. He squeezed once and then continued roaming up her body, sliding his fingers beneath her shirt and over her sports bra.

  Death was one thing, but to suffer such an indignity by this asshole was too much. “You rape me and I’ll break your little dick off inside me,” she said, words almost a growl.

  Anderson drew back just as his fingers brushed her nipples through her bra. “Oh, is that what you think I want to do? Violate your woman parts? No, honey. I’m not that kind of violator. I’m more of a flesh explorer. Well, what’s under the flesh, anyway. So many secrets, so little time.” Gone was the nervous guy from before, replaced by this creepy, dangerous man.

  He gave her nipples a parting squeeze and withdrew his hands, crossing to the other side of the room to open a satchel resting on a table. On the way there, he nearly ran over Jedi who scrambled around his legs to a pile of stuff on the floor.

  Turning her head, Bess saw the stuff was her backpack and weapons, and now this little shit was rifling through them.

  “Krag was serious, Anderson. Better kill her.”

  “Shut up, Jedi.”

  “Look, man. I’m just trying to help. Stick to the plan. Don’t fuck with Krag unless you want to end up dead.”

  Anderson stopped fiddling with the implements from the bag. He half-turned, holding up a wicked looking pair of surgical scissors. His eyes roamed Bess in a way that was ten times worse than being ogled in the gym or on the streets.

  "I'm serious."

  The hungry light diminished and Anderson sighed, shoulders drooping. “You’re right. You know, Jedi, you might be the only one around here with the perfect amount of patience and sense. I see big things in your future.”