The Awakening s-1

by L. L. Foster

  "They were." Her thoughts wandered back through time. "Once, when I was younger—"

  "You're young now."

  If you went by experience, she was older than anybody should ever be. "I was in my late teens, I think, living in this rundown apartment. A woman next door to me killed her husband, and I didn't know it."

  "But I thought…"

  "I know. You think I'm some superhero or some such crazy shit. But I'm not, Mort, so don't get yourself confused. That woman? She shot her husband for cheating on her. I overheard her telling the police that he'd come home drunk, and he told her she was looking old, that she turned him off. He told her he'd been fooling around with a younger woman. So she got their old thirty-eight pistol and she shot him in the head."

  "A woman scorned, huh?"

  "I stood there, stunned because I hadn't realized anything was happening. There'd been no pain, no calling. Later I realized it was because what happened was normal."

  "You think so?"

  "She wasn't evil incarnate. She was just a woman in love who had her pride hurt bad enough that she showed poor judgment. Before the cops took her away, she was already crying for her loss, wishing she hadn't done it."

  "So…" He trailed off, then regrouped. "If what you're saying is that you only get that awful way when something truly evil is happening, then that means…"

  Gaby glanced back at him.

  He swallowed audibly. "Whatever that was after Luther was—"

  "The basest of evils. A true depravity."

  "Like…" Eyes wide, he whispered, "The devil or something?"

  "Worse. A demonic being here on earth." Thanks to the broken pipe, Gaby's arm started a steady ache.

  "Then Luther is in real trouble."

  "Yeah, I think so. But I'll look out for him."

  "How?" Mort practically screeched. "You can't be with him every minute. You can't stand guard over him. Luther isn't the type of man who'd ever allow it, but he's also not a man to believe in—"

  "Bogeymen? He's learning."

  "He's my friend, Gaby," Mort said with grave depression. "I don't want anything to happen to him."

  "Nothing will," Gaby vowed, both to Mort and to herself. "Like I told you, if something really bad comes after him, I'll know and I'll… go to him. Wherever he is. And no, don't ask me how. That's just how it works."

  "You instinctively know where to go?"

  "Sort of. Somehow, I just get there."

  Given the silence, Gaby knew Mort didn't understand, and was starting to ponder her sanity again.

  "Look. It's like this. Information gets channeled through me. My body is just a conduit for the purpose. I end up where I need to be, and I do what needs to be done, and then I'm me again. End of story."

  "I trust you."

  He was such a dupe. "Great. Now take a deep breath. We'll be home soon," she reassured Mort, because she didn't dare reassure herself. "You'll be able to relax then."

  "After tonight, I don't think I'll ever relax again."

  His voice no sooner faded than they heard an odd but human sound. Flattening back against the wall, her hand already over Mort's mouth, Gaby waited.

  A whimper.

  Slurping. Silent tears.

  Rank commands and foul enjoyment.

  She heard it all, and she understood.

  Rage, not God's command, stirred her blood. Her eyes narrowed, and she stared through the abyss. "Stay here, Mort."

  "Gaby, no, please." Mort's hands grasped at her shirt. "You don't know who it is, if it might be the cops or another of those crazy people—"

  "Get a grip," she hissed at Mort, impatient to intercede. "I'll be right back." She brushed him off and crept away, her knife in her hand, the injury in her arm forgotten. Up ahead, a dim glow shone from one building.

  The end of the alley.

  They'd be close to home, but she had work to do yet. No, God hadn't called her for this one.

  But damn it, He should have.

  As Gaby stepped into the light, she saw a couple at the edge of the alley, in the shadows, but not really hidden. The woman knelt on the rough ground, her blouse mostly torn off, her face and upper arms red, scratched, and bruised.

  She was held captive close to the man's body, her face shoved against his belly. Her cheeks hollowed out, her head bobbed.

  She sobbed again.

  As Gaby took in the scene, the man closed his eyes in release.

  Moaning in what Gaby interpreted as harsh pleasure, his body jerked obscenely. The woman tried to pull back, but he cruelly twisted his hand in her ponytail, using the hold like a leash, forcing her to perform on him.

  To swallow.

  The sight of it all, her comprehension, froze Gaby to the spot.

  The man slumped against the wall, his body lax. Released, the woman quickly scampered back.

  Tears tracked her cheeks. Her nose bled.

  Torn from her stupor, Gaby didn't even stop to think about it; she allowed herself to react.

  In an instant, her knife whistled through the air—and sank with satisfying accuracy into the bastard's shoulder.

  He contorted on a yelp of surprise, followed by a shout of outrage. He looked at the girl on her knees first, and seeing she wasn't a threat, his gaze swung around until he found Gaby striding toward him. She wasn't done with him, not by a long shot, and he must have sensed that.

  Ignoring her knife in his flesh, he tried to charge her.

  Good. Even though he was a miserable bully and rapist, he had strength and he wasn't a coward.

  She wanted a fight. She wanted this fight.

  It felt right. It felt purposeful.

  For this, she could almost smile.

  "That's right," Gaby taunted. "Tangle with someone who isn't cowed by you."

  "Stupid bitch," he thundered. "You'll be damn sorry you—"

  He was in midthreat when Gaby's heel connected with his chin. When his head snapped back, her elbow jammed into his throat. As he gurgled and gagged, she retrieved her knife, sliding it out of his dense flesh to press it tight, tight enough to cut, where he'd feel it most.

  The girl screamed, scrambling backward on hands and heels like a tipsy crab.

  Mort rushed out of the alley. "Gaby!"

  With so much fanfare, she wouldn't have been surprised if a spotlight had suddenly shone down on her wretched head.

  Face close to the man's, her fist keeping the knife blade snug against his groin. Gaby whispered, "You deserve to lose this, don't you?" She pressed in enough to nick him, making certain he understood.

  "You're insane," he garbled, still suffering from the trauma to his throat.

  "You betcha. Insane enough that I'll haunt your dreams for the rest of your life."

  He looked into her eyes and shriveled back in fear.

  His impaired esophagus made him gasp for each shallow breath. Distress for his precious jewels kept his eyes wide and wild. Drool trickled from the side of his trembling mouth.

  Gaby enjoyed his reaction.

  She enjoyed herself in this role.

  "I'll know what you do," she told him. "What you think and what you want. If you ever again use force on anyone or anything, I swear to God, I'll castrate you."

  The man prayed, which amused Gaby. God wouldn't help him. Not tonight.

  But then Mort grabbed her arm. "Gaby, please. You cut him bad and he's bleeding. He could die."

  A fog lifted, and Gaby became aware of everything.

  The sobs of the man, the worst sobs of the girl, Mort's palpitating fear.

  "He deserves death." But she jerked her knife away from him.

  It was really bloody now. And so was she.

  "Maybe he does," Mort said, "but you don't deserve his death on your hands."

  Gaby caught her breath. Mort had stopped her for her sake?

  The man crumpled to the ground, drenched in a combination of sweat, blood, and more disgusting body fluids.

  Foul bastard.

 
Repulsed, Gaby turned to look at the girl.

  Homely little thing, with ruined makeup smeared everywhere and a red, snotty nose. "How old are you?"

  Her lips quivered. "Twenty."

  "Liar." She looked to be in her midteens, maybe seventeen on a stretch. "Go home."

  "I… I can't."

  Of course not. If she could, she wouldn't be here now, tonight, in this hopeless place. The futility of it all settled in once again, evaporating the elation of triumph. "Then at least get away from here."

  The girl nodded, lumbered to her feet and wiped her mouth. More tears leaked out. She pushed hair away from her bruised and dirty face. "Thank you so much."

  Fingers curling around her knife hilt, Gaby snarled, "I was too late. He'd already used you."

  "No." She shook her head. "You wasn't too late. He wasn't done with me. He would have… he woulda done more. Worse stuff. He told me so. So, thank you."

  Hoping she had made a difference, Gaby nodded.

  Waiting until after the girl had run off, Gaby dropped to one knee by the man.

  Mort panicked again. "What are you doing?"

  "Well I'm not going to stick him again, if that's what you're thinking. What would be the point?" She set her knife to the side. "I'm seeing if he has a cell phone."

  "But… why?"

  "So we can get him some help." She found a phone in his loose, drooping pants pocket, but had to wipe the blood away before she could see the numbers. "Like you said, Mort. I don't need his death on my hands. Not if I can help it."

  Holding the phone away from her face, Gaby called 911 and calmly gave the address and situation.

  "The cops'll get you, bitch," the man muttered in faint aggression. He barely kept himself sitting upright and kept swaying as if ready to topple. One arm hung useless at his side, his hand in his lap over his crotch, and with the opposite hand he tried to stem the sluggish flow of blood from his shoulder.

  "Shut up, stupid. You're almost dead, and the cops would be more interested in arresting you than me." She withdrew his wallet and read his name, his address. She leaned down and held the open wallet in front of his face. "Besides, I know you now, who you are and where you live. If you rat me out, or even try to rat me out, you'll regret it. I can promise you that."

  New fear smothered his hostility and rendered him mute.

  Attention darting this way and that, Mort wrung his hands over Gaby until she'd again wiped the phone—this time to remove her prints—and shoved it back in the man's pocket.

  "All right, Mort." Against the man's hair, she wiped the blood from her knife and returned it to its sheath. "Let's go."

  Mort hurried after her. "You're okay now?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine. Better than fine." Damn it, she felt good. Strong. Altruistic. She'd stopped a crime and, maybe, hadn't killed anyone. Until an ambulance reached that clown, she wouldn't place any bets, though. Not that she'd waste pity or regret on any man who'd rape a woman in any way.

  Her stride longer and more sure, she headed for the apartment building. "Mort?"

  He hustled along beside her, breathing fast from exertion. "Yeah?"

  "I get the overall picture, but specifically, what was he doing to her?"

  Mort stumbled over his own feet and then had to rush to catch back up with her. "You're kidding."

  "No. I mean, I get that it was sexual. But I'm not sure I understand. Spell it out for me, okay?"

  "Oh God." He shook his head hard. "Gaby, please, don't ask me stuff like that."

  She slanted him a glance. He looked… ill. More so than usual. "Why not?"

  "Because I can't answer you, that's why!"

  His raised voice was enough to alert the National Guard. "There's no reason to get hysterical about it."

  "Hysterical? Of course I'm hysterical! You've got the blood of three people on you. I can hear the sirens of at least two different police cars. We left a man half dead back there." He put both hands in his hair. "I've got good reason to be hysterical."

  "Shhh. Calm down, Mort. I'll clean up and it'll all be okay."

  "Clean up? Have you looked at yourself?" He took his hands out of his hair so he could wring them together. "You're a mess."

  "Peroxide gets blood out, and even if it doesn't, we had animal blood in the stairs today. Anyone will believe it's from that."

  "Not if they do all that fancy forensics stuff—"

  Dolt. Not that she could blame him for being unfamiliar with police priorities. "The guy in the alley will say he was jumped, and that he doesn't know who did it."

  "You're sure?"

  "What else can he say? That he was raping a minor and someone defended her?" Gaby snorted. "But even if he didn't, it won't matter. Contrary to popular fiction, the cops don't pull out the expensive tests tor every crime going. Not unless they have a murder victim, and reasonable suspicion on someone, and a lot of other stuff. And before you tell me they'll have a murder victim, let's wait to borrow trouble, okay? Those creatures in the alley might be written off as lunatics or something, and that other jerk might live."

  "Three bodies. Three. Oh God." He appeared ready to cry. "We have to hurry."

  His attitude nettled. That last thing they did… well, that was right and proper, what any good citizen should do.

  Wasn't it?

  And just what the hell did she know about good citizens, being a freak and all?

  Sullen now, thanks to Mort, Gaby said, "I told you not to get involved."

  "It's too late for that, so save it."

  A command from Mort?

  For her?

  Miffed, Gaby stopped at the apartment entrance and leveled a mean look on Mort. He stared back, defiant and nervous, and oddly protective.

  Damn it, for such a weaselly little creep, he really got to her sometimes. "All right, Mort. Make yourself useful. Go get me a towel. I'll head straight to the basement and throw my stuff in the laundry. Bring any peroxide you might have. I'll wash up down there, then go upstairs to dress again."

  With something constructive to do, Mort motivated. "Right. Got it. Let's go."

  To see Mort like this, almost as a sidekick, as a… friend, left her soft inside. He could be a pain in the ass, but right now, she was glad she had him.

  Luther, on the other hand… well, she didn't know what to think about Luther.

  Was he, like Mort, an ally, a person she could trust, maybe even confide in?

  Or would Detective Luther Cross be the man who finally brought her to an end?

  Chapter Eleven

  Luther lay in the hospital bed, his head pounding, his eyes red, and his thoughts churning.

  The past few hours were there, but they lacked clarity. It was after he'd left Gaby at the apartment with Mort that things got cloudy. He remembered heading to the butcher's. Then he'd heard a sound, had surely investigated. He recalled a deformed person, so pathetic and sad that shame smothered him whenever he recalled his reaction to… it.

  For the life of him, he still couldn't say if the person had been female or male.

  In the deepest recesses of his mind, another vague memory stirred.

  Gaby's voice.

  And Mort's.

  But he couldn't get a grasp on it, and when he tried to explain his vague perceptions of violence and retribution, the other detectives looked at him like he was nuts. Or delirious. Or suffering something worse than a concussion.

  Where the hell were the docs? He wanted to go home.

  He wanted to check on Gaby. To ask her… what? If she'd been nearby when a grossly disfigured asexual being attacked him, and then disappeared?

  Luther could easily imagine her reaction to that.

  As if he'd summoned her, she stuck her head around the curtain. Their gazes met, his shocked at her appearance, hers challenging, and then she came on around, full of bravado and that habitual mordancy.

  "Just as I figured. You're lying in here faking it, soaking up all the attention, huh?"

  "Do you see a
nyone doting on me?"

  Gaby didn't smile. No, never that. But she shrugged and dropped her skinny ass onto the side of his bed. "You probably chased everyone off with your piss-into-the-wind attitude."

  Damn, it was good to see her, to know she was okay and as ornery as ever. She smelled fresh, as if she'd just showered. Her cheeks were rosy, her dark hair glossy and sleek. "Is it necessary for me to point out that your insult is somewhat like the pot calling the kettle black?"

  "Maybe." She looked him over, her gaze lingering on the bandage around his head until her brows pinched together. "Don't you think you should get back out there on the streets and figure out who waylaid you?"

  Suspicion blunted his pleasure at seeing her, but he kept his tone even with mere curiosity. "What makes you think anyone waylaid me?"

  With a roll of her eyes, she ticked off reasons on her long, slender fingers. "You're in a hospital. There's a bandage around your head. You're white faced. If I'm not missing my guess, you're bare-assed beneath that ugly hospital gown, and—"

  "'Soon as the doc releases me," Luther cut in, "I'll be out of here." He wanted to take her hand, but didn't dare. "How did you know to find me here, Gaby?"

  "The streets talk. Being a cop and all, you should know that." She tilted her head, frowned again, then looked behind her. "Mort? Where did you go?"

  And around the curtain came Mort. "Hi, Luther."

  "Mort. So Gaby dragged you along?"

  His thin shoulders rolled forward. "We were worried. Wanted to make sure you were okay." He cleared his throat. "We heard someone jumped you?"

  "I assume so, I really don't remember too much about it."

  "Amnesia?" Mort shuffled closer. "No way. Really?"

  "Just a lack of clear details." Luther looked at Gaby, but she avoided his gaze by peering at the blinking dials behind him.

  Mort again cleared his throat. "So… you got hurt and called your friends. Other cops, I mean. Did they catch anybody yet?"

  "No. It's weird, but whoever was in the alley with me up and disappeared."

  That got Gaby's interest. "Disappeared? How?"

  "I have no idea. Thanks to a whack on the head, I was out of it. I didn't come to until the ambulance got to me." Thinking about it kicked up the throbbing of Luther's headache another notch. "I've never been knocked out before."