Catwalk: Messiah

by Nick Kelly

  Damn Oliver.

  Instead of focusing on work, he was too busy focusing on U-Sec’s newest agent and call center manager, Pixie Chick.

  They were going to have a nice long chat about the problems with interoffice dating when she returned.

  Red and blue flashing lights skimmed across the dirt-encrusted windows at the top of the warehouse. Sirens grew louder as police cars surrounded the building. She glanced at her watch.

  About time they arrived.

  Nearly forty-five minutes had passed since she’d first called the police after she spotted Raven climbing down from the roof of the Walters Art Museum in downtown Baltimore.

  Outside, car doors slammed shut and hard soles beat a path across the ground. She had five, maybe ten, minutes until the cops gassed the place, which was their preferred MO for dealing with transhumans like Raven. And her. Last time they had given her an assist, she’d almost gone down in friendly fire.

  Technically, she shouldn’t be in here. Shouldn’t have entered the building without backup. The warehouse doors were locked, and she hadn’t wanted to lose sight of Raven; she’d had to scale a semi parked underneath an open window to get in.

  It was a stupid, impetuous, and ultimately dangerous move. However, she’d assumed the police would have arrived sooner. When Raven had entered the warehouse, she’d known she’d lose him again if she didn’t follow. Her bosses at U-Sec had to understand. And if she brought Raven in—no, when she brought Raven in—they would more than understand.

  Maybe even give her a promotion.

  She glanced at her communicator, a secure U-Sec cell phone, clipped to her belt. It was her direct link to the U-Sec office and police. She’d silenced it before entering the warehouse. Usually, a dull green light blinked if there were a message. She unclipped it and looked at the LCD screen. No missed calls.

  She had spoken with Pixie at the U-Sec call center before she’d notified the police. Oracle—her sergeant and mentor—should have contacted her by now. Despite the officers outside, she preferred to have someone from her own team as backup. Most officers were not thrilled to work with U-Sec or, as they called it, the Freak Squad.

  Something clanged to her right. Just above her, Raven jumped onto another crate and then to another window, possibly searching for a weak spot in the perimeter.

  “Give up,” Surefire called out to him. “The building’s surrounded.”

  “Never stopped me before.”

  Surefire kept her eyes focused on Raven. Across from her, the doors rattled.

  Suddenly, Raven’s foot slipped. He fell a short distance and then caught himself on the windowsill. Pulling himself back up, he wagged his head as if to clear it. “You don’t feel that?”

  “No,” Surefire replied, though she couldn’t explain the uneasiness prickling up her spine.

  A gruff male voice shouted orders outside. Then the police tried to open the nearly floor-to-ceiling doors with a resounding bang. Surefire edged closer to the doors. Her gaze shot to the iron handles. She did a double take.

  The doors were chained from the inside.

  Something on the far end of the warehouse slammed shut. She looked up and saw Raven staring in the sound’s direction.

  She grabbed her communicator and tried to control her nervous fingers as she dialed her police contact.

  “Detective Matthews,” she whispered into the small phone. She held it to her ear but heard nothing. The LCD screen faded to black. The battery was dead.

  She hooked the phone back onto her belt and ran toward the exit to warn the police the doors were chained.

  A tingling sensation skimmed across her skin. She paused in mid-step. Vibrations, like a mild electrical current, hummed through her veins. Crates creaked and shifted above her, and the floor started to shake.

  “What the—?” Surefire grabbed the handle of a cargo container just as a crack snaked through the middle of the concrete floor. Above her, metal containers shifted and scraped together. Across the aisle, a few wooden crates fell and splintered apart onto the floor. She aimed the rappelling gun on her left wrist, but it was too late. Before the cable could deploy, she slipped and fell next to the fissure.

  She sprang to her feet and darted away from the widening crack.

  This couldn’t be another earthquake. In twenty-seven years, she’d experienced only one in Baltimore a few years ago. And then she’d hardly felt anything while driving on the beltway.

  Something creaked above her.

  “Watch out!” Raven shouted as he jumped from the window to the top crate and landed with practiced ease next to her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he tackled her to the ground. He rolled with her several times before they stopped with him on top, leaning over her in a provocative straddle—leaving her breathless.

  Surefire’s carefully packed gadgets on her utility belt cut into her lower back. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t concentrate, and needed to get up. She jabbed both palms hard against his chest, but he didn’t budge. A loud rumble interrupted her struggle. The sound rose and filled the warehouse, ending in an ear-splitting crash.

  The cargo container she’d been standing underneath seconds ago fell to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust and dirt. The metal sides and corners buckled like an accordion.

  Her heart thumped wildly. She glanced up at Raven, who was staring at her with a fierce intensity. Under normal circumstances, she might have been frightened by a criminal looming over her. But she was too shocked from her near-death experience to care.

  “Thanks,” she stammered.

  The side of his lips lifted up in a smile. “Anytime.”

  She noticed he no longer held the sack. “Where’s the statue?”

  He shifted, elevating his weight from his left side. He inclined his head toward a crawl space between two containers. “I threw it out of the way—”

  With her right arm free, Surefire used her thumb to flick a switch in her palm. A dart ejected from the gun on her right wrist, and she jabbed the needle into his neck in one swift movement.

  He raised his hand in astonishment and pulled it out. He frowned at the needle. “This is the gratitude I get?”

  She shrugged and smiled smugly under her mask.

  “Typical woman.”

  “Typical man,” Surefire countered.

  He planted his hands on either side of her. His eyes glazed over as the drug took effect. “My body is going to reject it. I’ll shake it off in seconds.”

  “I had this one made especially for you. You left behind more than a fake fertility statue at your last robbery.”

  He groaned. His arms buckled.

  The floor shook again and started separating underneath her back.

  She slammed her palms into his chest. “Move!”

  But it was too late.

  About the Author

  When J.T. Bock was a child, she wanted to be James Bond or Indiana Jones or a vampire hunter or Wonder Woman. Whatever brought her the most action, adventure, and romance while playacting on her stage—otherwise known as her grandmother’s basement. Now J.T. has assembled her own team of action heroes, supernatural creatures, and maniacal villains and set them on adventures far from her basement to exotic lands and alternate dimensions.

  From a secret location outside of Washington, DC, J.T. conjures these pulse-pounding tales to share with those kindred readers looking for an exciting escape. Her alternate identity enjoys spending time with her workaholic husband and their sidekick rescue dog, traveling to interesting locales, running her graphics business, and enjoying life to the fullest with an amazing group of family and friends and a good glass of wine.

  Check out J.T.’s latest adventures and find her by flashing her initials in the sky, opening up her favorite bottle of Pinot Noir, or visiting her website at www.jtbock.com.

  ICHI

  ICHI

  by N.S. Kelly

  Coming October 2013

  Chapter One

  Crunch. Cr
ack. Bones split.

  She knew the sound of bones snapping under the pressure of a predator’s jaws. She froze. Her nightly run forgotten. She stopped in the shadows of the building next to her, tilted her head, and listened.

  She paused as silence descended.

  Her stomach tightened.

  Human, animal, or other?

  She remained still, hiding, listening, as she’d always done and been trained to do.

  Her breathing steadied. She fought the sounds, willing them to not be what she'd thought she'd heard. This was not her battle.

  She'd wanted to get in her nightly run without a demon sighting. The long days at the morgue shredded her stamina. A medical examiner's daily routine fatigued her enough without adding in this. She'd been working days on end and welcomed the brief respite. She’d started her run to get rid of the stress, not add more.

  No, thank you, Universe, for whatever planetary alignment that was causing such upheaval.

  She wrinkled her nose. The rusty, metallic smell of blood reached her as she passed by an alleyway. She sniffed, shaking her head, adjusting to the scent. She suppressed the involuntary urge to sneeze by pressing the tips of her index fingers and thumbs together. The minute gesture gave her something to focus on. She took in a deep breath and exhaled. She’d deal. She'd been made for this. It was her calling.

  Technically, she wasn’t on duty. Shellie was on tap for this. North America was her domain, her responsibility.

  Crack.

  Growl.

  Wet lips smacked together in satisfaction and repulsion rolled through her entire body. She bit back a physical response and focused on her breathing.

  This was work, nothing more.

  Her stomach tightened. She listened and then crept forward toward the sounds. She stopped and stilled in the shadows of the building, and her hearing expanded. Her hands curled to her sides. Her spine tightened. A plastic bottle clattered down the alleyway, blown by the wind. Tires splashed through puddles several blocks over. The endless rhythm of go-go music playing in Adams Morgan a mile away pulsed in her ears. The city never rested.

  Crunch.

  Lick.

  Slurp.

  Purr.

  Growl.

  She hesitated, every cell in her demanding a response. Pinpricks raced over her skin. She forced her heart rate to slow as she began to take stock. The local samurai wasn't responding. Shellie was late.

  Shellie was never late.

  Every bit of her being tuned into the sounds. Shellie either was either ignoring her mission or she’d been called elsewhere. She hoped it was the latter. She heard it all, bad sign.

  And then, the scent hit her.

  She sniffed again, and odd combination of smells — ashes, bones and baby powder—whiffed across her nose. Demon. Rissu, recently born at that.

  She shuddered. She wished no one a run in with a mature Rissu. Baby killers. She'd slain several before. A newborn meant an adult had to be nearby.

  Who was calling demons into the Nation's Capital? Did they have a vendetta against the current administration?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  She would never understand those she'd been sent to protect. They did the dumbest things in the name of power, and calling a demon into being was very, very dumb. Although, DC provided a daily dose of all levels of stupidity. She'd chronicled them through the years. Someday, she'd post them up to some website. Or, maybe she'd send an anonymous article. Her sister Samurai wouldn't kill her then.

  Focus, Shia, focus.

  The sound of another crack reached her ears, and her body began to hum. She couldn't ignore a demon. As tired as she was, duty called...demanded. Shia cast aside the desire to turn the other cheek and move on because this wasn't her domain. The tenets of the Samurai prevailed. Their code was simple: Loyalty, honor, obedience, duty, filial piety, and, when necessary, self-sacrifice.

  Cold energy rippled over her, pulsed in her veins, growing with each heart beat. Her eyelids fluttered. The static from within caressed her skin, escaping through every pore and every hair on her head. The familiar satisfaction of upcoming battle crept into her psyche. The feeling of perfect harmony with her body granted a heightened consciousness only true Samurai achieved. Her swords hummed against her back. Her hands reached back without a second thought. The sound of metal against leather whispered as she pulled the hidden blades from their sheaths.

  What other woman ran the streets at night with swords strapped to her back? Thankfully, she'd never had to explain it.

  Swords in hand, she rounded the corner, and the alleyway opened up before her. Bricks, trash, shadows. Nothing ever changed in the alleyways, unless you counted the probable appearance of hungry homeless, hungrier rats, or a prostitute turning a quick trick, darkness and night. Demons never hunted during daylight hours. At least, none of hers did. No wonder she stuck to late evening runs.

  She moved forward, inch-by-inch. She should have taken up needlepoint or some other mindless, home based activity. There were thousands of things to occupy her body and mind, yet somehow, she still had to be out moving and engaging.

  Demon junkie.

  That had to be it. All her years spent tracking, teaching, it was a drug in her system. She was taking a vacation once this latest infestation died down or when she found Shellie.

  She rounded the corner and saw him. Male, not that she’d ever seen a female Rissu outside a portal shimmer. The males? The spines always showed on the males, deep, dark, spiky, through the clothes, if they happened to wear any. No matter how hard they tried to pass off as human, Rissu never quite managed to keep the spines from protruding from their backs.

  "No sir, we don't eat the resident beings on the planet we were just called to." She tsk'd him as she stepped out of the darkness.

  The creature before her stopped, hunched over in the shadows of the alley. His head turned at the sound of her voice. Shia couldn't make out the demon's victim from this angle, but she was certain it was dead. The Rissu's claws stilled. Chunks of flesh stuck between its fangs. Blood dripped from its long razor like nails and covered the brick wall before him, sprayed forward like the work of some avant garde artist.

  Messy kill.

  She wrinkled her nose as the scent of wet dog overwhelmed her.

  Oh, thank the stars, he'd started with the four-legged beings rather than the humans. She sent a silent prayer for the lost canine soul and focused on the Rissu before her. He was large for a newborn. Her best guess put him over 6'4", though his weight was impossible to estimate, given the anatomy of his race, top-heavy, a brawler, well muscled and powerful. His claws easily tore through the carcass of his prey, a Rottweiler. His teeth had severed its neck and bones. The thing was famished, and she had interrupted its first meal.

  Shia weighed her odds. She'd hunted Rissu before. This one outsized her by at least a couple hundred pounds and over a foot in height. She'd bet he wasn't going to like her much after this.

  Oh well, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Right?

  When he turned his massive head to look at her, she struck. Her sword whispered through the night air, intent on taking his head from his shoulders. She cursed under her breath as he moved, the tip of the blade grazing his shoulder rather than severing his head from his neck.

  "No sir, be a good demon. This is not your realm." She shook her head at him and sing-songed as she followed his movements. She twirled the sword in her right hand, her wrist rotating the long metal blade as an extension of herself. Her motions were almost musical as she stepped closer, separating the beast from his snack.

  The Rissu remained hunched over like a cat, back bowed, teeth bared, eyes lit up, studying her every move from the center of the alley.

  He growled.

  She smirked. "Bring it, fledgling."

  She stepped to the side, preparing for his attack. They never learned. When he launched into her, she switched the grip on her sword. He drove against her, and Shia fell backwar
d under the force. She jabbed into his upper ribs; the hilt of her sword in one hand, the hardened spear hand strike with the other. Each blow found the soft space between ribs, and she allowed herself a brief feeling of success. The Rissu’s momentum carried them both deeper into the alley. His weight shifted again, and she shoved hard. He slammed into the wall behind them.

  The demon howled in pain as the spines on his back struck cold stone. Shia grinned and rolled out of his grasp. Her foot lashed out, kicking his jaw sideways.

  His claws slashed out, nails elongated, sharp and spiky, reaching to her. She bit back a cry of pain as his hand knifed down, catching her across her abdomen.

  She clamped a hand over her mid-section. Blood rushed to her center. She frowned as she rolled, coming to her feet in a crouch. She chided herself for the premature assumption of victory.

  Rookie Rissu, 1, centuries old Samurai, 0.

  "Oh no, demon boy, it's not gonna be that easy."

  Ohh, come closer demon...ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

  She'd send him back into the alternate dimensions, multiple realities, in pain, and definitely in several pieces. Shia satisfied herself with the memory of sending an enemy into a dimension portal once without his limbs. She wondered if she’d have time for such a ritual before the pre-dawn traffic interrupted her.

  She blocked out the pain and switched hands with her sword, watching as the blood red eyes tracked her movements. Back and forth. Back and forth, she played.

  She waited.

  In the pause between shifting of hands, he leapt.

  She darted aside, grasping his neck. She pushed down into the pavement as he tried to overtake her. Her body shifted and flowed, her sword swept out and around in the other, intent on taking his head and ending this fight. He darted to the side and slid past her blade. Her sword tip hit the ground, metal ringing on asphalt. She almost bit her tongue in frustration. Her hand let go, claws retracted as the demon tumbled over and away from her. She didn't need him taking her with him. She watched as the Rissu rolled to his feet.