by L. L. Foster
But she had neither the time nor the inclination to school him on reality. She'd amused him enough.
"So Where'd you learn to move like that? Most women would have slapped his face and started crying. You knocked him out." He snapped his fingers, "Just like that. You've had special training?"
If you could call God a Trainer.
But Gaby couldn't tell him that. The pain in her belly ruptured, boiling up her throat and into her lungs and heart. She had to go.
Arms curled around her middle, her back teeth sawing together, she sought coherent words. "Are you arresting me or what?"
His head tilted back and something flickered in his expression, as if he'd just noticed her discomfort. The seconds ticked by, driving her urgency, sharpening the mauling agony.
Very softly, with a tip of his head, he said, "Not."
She let out a broken breath. And this time when she strode away on stiff legs that made her gait awkward, he didn't follow.
But damn it, Gaby felt his gaze and couldn't resist the urge to look over her shoulder.
She wished she hadn't.
He stood there, staring after her, somehow dark and bright at the same time. He looked… speculative, and the last thing she needed was some damn nosy cop wondering about her.
Thank God, he hadn't asked for her ID or even her name. If she became known in the area, she'd have to move on.
Again.
Blaming him for the excess of her pain, Gaby glared, and he began walking backward, moving away from her while keeping her in his sights. Gaby watched, waiting for him to round the corner, to go about his business, whatever that business might be.
He didn't. When he reached the drunk still sprawled on the walkway, he stood over him a moment, then knelt down and helped him sit up. Gaby's eyes widened. Damn it, the scuffle in front of the bar was her business, and she wanted Detective Luther Cross's nose out of it.
The drunk's friends staggered forward, and with horrified realization, Gaby watched as the detective began to grill them all. Shüüt.
She didn't trust that cop, not even a little. She considered intervening, but…
With Detective Cross no longer a threat, the real menace throbbed throughout the air like a thundering heartbeat, consuming her. Had she missed her chance? Was she too late after all?
Would she have to carry the pain for days instead of a couple of hours?
No.
She couldn't bear that. She wouldn't bear it. Somehow, she'd make it on time.
No cop had ever succeeded in halting her activities. She'd be damned if she'd let one get in her way now.
Teeth clenched, Gaby replaced her glasses over her eyes and broke into a hobbled run. At first, the agony nearly crippled her, but exerting herself physically helped give the pain guidance into her legs and lungs. Her stride became more fluid, faster. Through a deeper precognition, she followed her way to the trigger much as a dog trailed a scent.
Without tiring, without bumping into people or hazarding traffic, Gaby ran the length of the narrow street.
She saw no one, felt nothing.
Noise surrounded her, but beyond the slapping of her flip-flops and her own coarse, grating breath, she didn't hear a thing.
Less than a mile into her run, Gaby's urgency for speed waned, as did the pulse of life. Devoid of traffic, conversation, and children at play, an eerie stillness pervaded the area. No drunks fouled the air with insults. Birds didn't sing. The air stilled.
Gaby glanced around. Startling silence roared in her brain; she drew a strained, heavy breath.
Sweat glued her hair to her forehead and sealed her shirt to her flesh. In the furthest recesses of her mind, Gaby still felt the burning of her muscles and the tripping beat of her heart, but she remained unaffected by physical dominion.
In front of her, looming dark and still, an abandoned factory lured her. Determination and duty carried Gaby up the slight incline, over broken glass, sharp twigs, and crumbling concrete. Dead, moldered bugs crunched beneath her feet.
At the oily remains of an old discarded engine. Gaby paused. She was close. With each step she took toward the bulky, blackened brick face of the factory, the more her vision blurred. Eventually, she knew she'd see only vague outlines haloed by constantly shifting colors, tints, and hues to guide her actions and infuse her with necessary information.
Her feet moved by rote, taking her to a burned-out lot that butted into a decaying woods, concealed at the back of the building.
The core of the misery nestled here.
Bile burned in Gaby's chest, her pace lagged—and then it seized her in its awful, unrelenting vise. For too many heartbeats, the choking impact squeezed her gangling body. A futile cry gurgled in her throat before she regained herself, accepting the pain and deciphering its instruction.
Reflective heat undulated from the asphalt, seeping through Gaby's rubber flip-flops, sealing her within the pain so that it was a part of her, and her a part of it.
Forcing her heavy, plodding limbs to move, Gaby circled around the minacious face of the structure. Black as sightless eyes, broken windows stared at her. Her breath came in silent wisps, inadequate to feed her starving lungs.
The horror of what she knew she'd find shrieked in her brain.
She didn't want to do this.
But, oh God… she knew she had no choice.
She never did.
Chapter Three
A chaotic inferno of rich colors—bloody red, darkest brown, and writhing black—danced frenetically before her. The turbulence of the twisting hues indicated pain and fear, but not just pain and fear from the hapless victim. Such an explosion of color could only emanate from more than one person.
Where? Where?
Standing near a putrid Dumpster ripe with the stench of rot, feeding maggots, and refuse, she saw the sobbing child. Narrow arms stretched out, trying to fend off a nightmare of hideous features.
With the plethora of enraged colors indicating many things, Gaby tried to clear her vision, to better see through the auras to the physical features of the attacker. But still she saw… things she didn't quite comprehend or believe.
Sure, monsters existed. She knew it because she'd sent plenty of them to hell. But to the world, they looked like everyone else. They looked normal. Only with her divine talent did she see an exterior that matched their rotted souls.
But this time, she saw more.
She saw teratoid deformities. Gruesome. Inhuman. Sickening…
Revulsion raced up her spine as she stared in slack-jawed distaste at the target. Yes, she'd been summoned to this… this… whatever it might be.
Tall, but obviously old with a hunching posture that nearly bent the emaciated body in half. Bowed legs seemed inadequate to support the frame, and gnarled hands sported short, fattened fingers that gave the appearance of mittens.
Gaby swallowed convulsively. Aged, wrinkled skin bunched and puckered on the cheek and forehead, making room for a violation of odd fleshy protrusions. Except for the quivering, gelatinous blobs of vein-riddled, dimpled flesh that clung to the side of its head, the form appeared human.
A wail of sheer terror snapped up Gaby's attention. She looked beyond the creature and focused on the little boy.
Did he see the figure the same as she did? Did he realize that which tried to defile him wasn't human? Did that poor little boy comprehend the demon in the guise of a barely human form?
Visually as well as mentally, Gaby was accustomed to perceiving the truth. But this little boy wouldn't be.
How could he bear the sight of the awful dastard?
Kids and animals generated much pity. They were so sweet and pure, they couldn't comprehend the brutal depravity often heaped upon them.
Sounds passed Gaby's ears: needy, gulping whimpers mixed with unintelligible pleas, and finally helpless mewling. In her present state, the words were indecipherable, but she understood the appeal.
The kid, who couldn't have been more than ei
ght or nine, begged for help and a justice that only she could give. He was hurt and horrified, but evil hadn't gotten what it wanted.
Not yet.
It only toyed with the boy, frightening him, setting him up, weakening him with raw terror. She still had time.
Thank you, God.
Pain meant less than nothing to her when faced with saving a child. She would not let him down. She would not let herself down.
Bigger and stronger with purpose, Gaby slid her knife free of the sheath. Razor-edged steel on weathered leather emerged with a lethal hiss, bolstering her, empowering her. Steps metered and sure, she approached the scene, placing herself center stage, gaining sudden attention.
With a shock of displeasure, evil's face knotted and gnarled. The clumps of live flesh, covered in a glossy sheen, jiggled and flushed with ripening fury. The weight of the grotesque appendages kept the semihuman form off-kilter, listing to the side, adding to the loathsome image.
It released its grip on the trembling boy.
The child looked at Gaby, and even through the haze, she saw the awful anguish that would haunt him for all of his years.
He'd met the bogeyman, and he would never forget.
Gaby inhaled a painful, shuddering breath—and accepted the truth: She was on time, and yet, sadly… she wasn't.
"Go." She didn't hear her own voice; she never could, not when duty dominated her every sense. Most normal humans would have wanted to console the child, to reassure him.
That wasn't her job.
She didn't know shit about consolation.
But destruction… oh yeah. That she knew.
All her senses stayed tuned to the wicked face of corruption. As if the apparition felt confusion at her interference, or maybe over its own inclinations, bright violet and dark indigo churned together. The monster hesitated before taking a step toward her.
Oh yeah, Gaby thought, come to me.
And the colors mutated.
Bursts of blood red erupted, broken only by black holes boring through the crimson. This demon suffered excruciating pain and physical imbalance.
Gaby didn't soften an inch.
Because of her present insight, Gaby knew that the soul of this enmity had devoured many children. To her mind, it deserved to suffer. Without her intervention, it might have gone on to ruin other innocents. But now, finally, it had erred.
It came within Gaby's reach.
God wanted it gone, and she'd damn well see to it—gladly.
The boy back-stepped on weak, clumsy legs, faltering, shuddering, removing himself from her peripheral vision. Gaby allowed herself to be drawn into the evil, to understand it and experience it.
The better to destroy it.
"Go," she screamed one last time, and the boy turned in a stumbling rush, sobbing hard, fleeing as fast as he could. The vulgar, monstrous head turned to watch as its prey got away.
"No," Gaby taunted with certainty, "you won't ever touch him." Though fever burned through her, evaporating the sweat on her skin, her fingers were icy-tight on the bone handle of the lethal blade. "You're mine, you malformed bastard. All mine."
Quite often, demons were too stupid to be afraid. This trigger proved no different. Wailing its fury at her interference, deceived by her slim stature and the blank stare of her hollow eyes, the aged apparition crashed toward her.
Like great globs of brain tissue exposed to the elements, the excess flesh swung around the face. Pale eyes watery with age or tears displayed a bone-deep hatred. Parted on a fierce cry, wrinkled lips exposed toothless gums.
One bony limb lifted, creating an arc of blistering red and smoldering gray, intent on striking her.
Perfect.
In a straight, well-aimed strike, Gaby slashed with her knife, using the momentum of the attack to aid her. The finely honed edge penetrated the chest wall with ease. Gaby stuck her knife long and deep through loose, buttery flesh, until it deflected off a brittle rib.
The demon staggered, bent—and Gaby severed the windpipe, turning the shriek of pain and surprise into a repugnant gurgle.
She could have stopped there.
She should have stopped; it would have been less messy.
But when in the zone, Gaby lacked control. And when it came to the abuse of children, she considered mere death a feeble cop-out. For as long as the creature gasped for air, for as long as it could feel the slashing of her wrath. Gaby would administer her own fitting punishment.
Teeth bared in the grisly semblance of a smile, she hacked again, sinking deep into a blackened heart that accepted her blade like a stick through a marshmallow, soft and squishy.
Easy.
Satisfying.
Determined to give as much as she could, Gaby twisted the blade and wrenched it back out, doing as much damage on her exit as she'd done on the thrust.
Uncaring of the writhing, incoherent pleas and the chubby, dwarfed hands that batted at her in futile defense, Gaby gouged into wet, twisted guts, into those awful, bulbous growths on the head.
The body stilled, all movement ceasing, and still she used both hands, her breath coming in grunts as she sawed through organs and muscle.
Even in the afterlife, this malevolence would never again menace a child. When the coppery taste of blood polluted her mouth, Gaby finally stopped. She smelled the tang of the blood, felt the sting of it in her eyes.
The blood and gore was… everywhere. Bits and pieces of flesh, skin and bone, splattered and spilled on the ground, on the remains of the body… and on her.
Gasping, Gaby took a hasty, appalled step backward. She gagged, spat, and swiped an arm across her eyes and mouth.
Silenced by the violence of her own acts, she waited for the ease that followed a kill. Nothing moved but her rapidly pumping heartbeat and the bellowing of her chest as she sucked in stale, hot air. Anxious for the return of sanity, she closed her eyes.
But the relief didn't come.
Alarm clung to her; pain prodded and pulled.
What the hell was happening ?
Abruptly, she whiffed it in the air, the rancid scent of immorality. Accepting the prickling of fresh alarm, Gaby tried to prepare her depleted body.
Somewhere near to her, a presence lurked. The colors flowing in and around the area shifted with ominous overtones, all shades faded and greasy in deceptive connation, moving with the speed of a turbulent river, too fast for her to decipher. She sensed another's gleeful satisfaction and dawning perception, a perception that perhaps matched her own.
Blinding pain ripped a groan from her soul that she couldn't silence.
The knife, now slick with blood, almost slipped from her numbed fingers. She clung to it, bracing her feet apart to stay upright, to stay alert.
Whatever stalked her, she had to defend herself.
No one else would.
Thankfully, no sooner did Gaby have the thought than the alarm began receding, sliding away until only her thrumming grief remained.
She searched the area, searched her own senses, but could detect nothing. Slowly, through a lessening of misery that told her all was now well. Gaby came back to herself.
Whatever had plagued her, whatever had watched her, was now gone.
Nausea rolled over her. Her vision cleared and the brilliance faded, dissolving into the air until only the drab, washed-out colors of patchy grass, scorched trees and hazy sky remained. They were a dull contrast to the rich hues of auras.
They were the real world. If only she never again had to leave it.
A breeze tickled over her, reviving her.
Gaby didn't want to look. She hated looking, but facing the destruction had become an inexorable tangibility for her, a penance she forced herself to pay, no matter the cost.
Eyes burning, body taut with trepidation, she lifted her lashes.
Her knees buckled and she dropped down hard.
The man whose head barely remained attached to his neck, lying in a dark pool of his own body secretions
, in no way resembled the demon she'd just destroyed.
Deformed yes, although now, thanks to her, most of the deformities were gone, hacked off, no longer a part of his body. He looked…
He looked like someone's grandpa. Someone's murdered, mutilated grandpa.
All but decapitated.
Hand shaking, Gaby reached out to smooth his gray, disheveled hair, clumpy with blood, gore, and the remnants of chunky flesh and displaced muscle. She nudged his skull over, putting it more in line with his shoulders. Grizzled eyebrows framed soulless eyes, frozen with the horror she had delivered so skillfully.
She guessed his age somewhere in the mid-seventies.
His destroyed body was so gaunt as to be cadaverous. Had his deformities affected him mentally, turning him into a monster, robbing his body of strength, his mind of conscience?
No. She remembered her certainty of his past misdeeds. Perhaps the body had caught up to the soul. Life would be so much easier if all monsters looked like monsters.
But she knew that would never be.
Gaby looked at his hands, now red with his own blood. His fingers were short and blunt. There were no nails. Just discoid tips.
By accident, or had some disease eaten away at him?
An invisible fist squeezed at Gaby's heart and she wanted to howl, to deny that she, Gabrielle Cody, had butchered him in so many places that meat hung from his body, and only bones held him together.
He would never hurt anyone again.
No one, except her.
Regardless of what she knew him to be, despite the fact that she'd saved a child, probably many children, she would never be able to forget him.
She never forgot any of them.
They became part of her, in some ways adding to her strength, in other ways tearing her down until she felt like nothing at all.
As she did now.
Only moments ago, rage had guided her; now a pervasive weakness sent quivers rippling up and down her spine. She gagged, still tasting the blood, identifying the scent as it baked on the hot asphalt beneath the blistering sun. A fly buzzed close, landing on the man's exposed intestines.