Fighting Midnight: Ankarrah Chronicles Book Two: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy

by J. D. Dexter

  “Now we don’t have to worry about it anymore either.”

  “Who was worried about it?”

  “Oh please. Girls are always worried about that. Especially if the guy isn’t gassy. Girls do fart and poop, too. Most men seem to forget that, or they willingly choose to believe that girls aren’t actually human with normal bodily function.” I try another sip of Coke.

  The bubbles of carbonation going down my throat is a comforting sensation. It settles so-so on my stomach, making me wish for some crackers or peanuts. I push the call button again, bringing my chair upright.

  The flight attendant, a slim, redheaded woman in her late-forties comes back up the aisle. Her red-tipped finger pushes the button as she looks at me with muddy green eyes. Thin lips stretch wide as her slightly protruding two front teeth push against her condescending smile.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you again for the Coke. Do you happen to have any crackers or peanuts that I could get, please?” I ask her.

  Something in her eyes has me pushing back into my seat. “Of course.” Her mouth is smiling, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she handed me poison with a smile. She walks away, her heel strikes muffled by the carpet.

  “Did you notice anything off about her?” I ask Hunter in a whisper.

  He turns to look at me. “No. She seems friendly and professional.”

  I search his face. “Really? Nothing that makes you think she wants to murder you in your sleep or stuff poison down your throat just to watch you struggle?”

  He gives me a look that makes me feel a little crazy. “Nope. Nothing like that at all. I’ll look at her again when she drops off your crackers though.”

  I nod my head. “Please do,” I murmur as she walks back up the narrow aisle.

  “Here’re your crackers, Finley. Enjoy them.” She holds them out in such a way that our skin touches. Immediately my vision clouds, my stomach bottoms out. It feels like my brain slides and sloshes in my head, and the hand she’s touching feels like it’s being sucked on by a group of leeches.

  “KEZ!” I scream for her mentally.

  Over the sound of crashing waves in my ears, I hear grunts and groans. “Take your hand off of her, or I’ll remove it for you,” Hunter snarls, his body radiating heat next to me.

  “Don’t move or I’ll kill her where she sits,” the flight attendant says calmly.

  I can’t get her skin away from mine, the sucking feeling moving up my arm slowly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hunter motion to someone behind the flight attendant.

  “Good. Now, I want Finley to stand up. No, Hunter, you stay right there. Finley can crawl over you.” She tugs on my hand that is beginning to feel numb in the fingers.

  I manage to make my way to the aisle. Her hand now wrapping around my wrist like an iron manacle. I can barely move my arm, let alone try to get free and beat the ever-loving crap out of her for this.

  “Anixia sends her regards.” She points her other hand towards the unmoving wall of Brockten ahead of us in the aisle. A long silver spike extends from her fingers and spears directly toward Brockten’s chest.

  21

  Brockten merely smiles. Just as the spike is about to penetrate his body, it melts. Sliding to the ground in a shower of silver rain, Brockten steps over the mess and grabs the flight attendant by the throat.

  She wraps her other hand around his wrist. A flinch is the only indication that he feels anything other than joy at being in an honest to goodness physical altercation.

  Lifting her body from the floor with just one hand, he shakes her like a dog throwing off water. Her legs jangle against each other. The arm holding my hand waves back and forth, too. Which wouldn’t be bad, except her hand is still attached to my arm.

  My arm whips through the air like a limp noodle, the numb feeling now a deep burn sliding through my veins. “She’s doing something to me.” I pick and pry at her fingers, but nothing works to make her let go.

  Kez bounds over the empty row of seats, her eyes a brilliant emerald and amethyst fire. Murmuring under her breath that odd lyrical chanting song I still don’t understand, she manages to pry the tip of one of the flight attendant’s fingers away from my skin.

  I’m a little surprised that it’s still attached to the lady’s hand, but we can discuss appropriate force when I don’t feel like I’m being sucked dry from the inside.

  The drain is still pulling at me, spreading across my shoulders with numbness and tingling. In my frazzled state, my vision switches fully into my old Spectrum sight. This woman’s Spectrum is a writhing mass of neon colors and blacks like the early nineties exploded all over her aura.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Brockten says from directly behind the flight attendant. He’s usually quiet, but now I have to strain just to hear his words.

  Keeping her in the air with one hand, he murmurs a couple of words. Out of thin air, he pulls his combat sword with his other hand. The finely-honed length of organic metal zings through the air, almost whistling, as he brings it down over the attendant’s outstretched arm.

  A fountain of blood splatters me and covers the seats nearby. Jets of red pump from the end of her severed arm as her screams reach dog-hearing-only territory. A quick movement of Brockten’s hand and the attendant is slumping into oblivion.

  “What’s going on here? Air Marshall! We need the Air Marshall!” The male flight attendant rushes in from the back of the plane.

  “We need to stop the blood flow, otherwise she’ll die,” Hunter says, his voice calm. He lowers his voice, “If she dies, we can’t question her.”

  I reach out with my other hand and grab the bloody stump. Calling on my adira, I cauterize the flesh. The fetid stench of burning flesh rises through the enclosed space.

  “I’m Special Agent Sarah Richardson with the Department of Homeland Security. Please return to your seat, sir. Keep everyone in their seats.” She holds her badge out in front of the young man’s face. He looks barely twenty-five, and his bright red hair and freckles both stand out in relief against his bone-white face.

  “I’m Kellan Abernathy, Federal Air Marshal Service. What’s going on here?” An average height, average weight, average appearance man steps up through the crowd. The people from economy seats part for him like the Red Sea for Moses.

  “Special Agent Sarah Richardson, Department of Homeland Security.” She raises her badge for him to inspect. He nods, and she puts it back in her pocket.

  Sarah leans in and begins speaking in rapid-fire sentences. Nodding as he listens, Kellan’s hazel eyes narrow as he turns to look at me like he’s sizing me up as an opponent.

  “I’ll get everyone back to their seats and go speak to the pilots.” Kellan turns back to address the other passengers. Luckily there looks to be less than forty people total on the plane.

  “We’ve only got a couple minutes. Finley pull her hand off your arm. Brockten, for the love of God, put your sword away. Everyone relax; I’ll take care of everything. Sit down, we have to wait for him to talk to the pilots.” She motions us back, patting the air when we remain standing.

  All of us take a seat on the aisle, lining either side of the narrow passageway. Sarah stays standing, looking professional and in charge.

  Kellan makes his way up the small corridor, he walks up to the bolted pilots’ door and lifts his badge up to the camera. After a couple seconds, one of the pilots opens the door and has a quick, quiet conversation with Kellan. Both men nod, the pilot closes the door, and Kellan heads back towards our group.

  “Special Agent Richardson, why don’t you explain what the hell is going on here please? And don’t give me that crap about special Senatorial Committee hearings and authorization.” He looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

  “My name is Brent Hastings, I’m a lawyer, and she is telling you the truth. We are on our way to an Armed Forces Oversight and Investigations Subcommittee Senate Hearing. We have the appropriate paperwork, authorizations
, and subpoenas if you need to look at them.”

  Abernathy looks a little lost for words. “And the blood, severed limb, and screaming was what?”

  “I was attacked by the now-unconscious flight attendant you see laying on the floor in the forward portion of the cabin.” I lift my hand.

  “She cut off her own arm?” he asks.

  “No, sir.” I look over at Brent. He gives a slight nod. “One of my associates did that.” I tip my head towards Brockten.

  Abernathy moves his hand to his hip, brushing his sport jacket out of the way. “Show me your weapon, sir.” The tension rising in his stiffening shoulders and neck muscles.

  “Marshal Abernathy,” Sarah begins from behind him, “Brockten will show you his weapon, but you must remain calm.” She nods her head at Brockten as she lays a hand on Abernathy’s back. The tingling feeling of power being used floats through the air around her.

  Moving slowly, Brockten lifts his hand. Murmuring a couple words under his breath, the length of silver protrudes from his palm. As soon as the handle appears, he grabs it and wraps his fist around the pommel. He lifts his other hand away from his body, keeping his mouth shut and his palm open.

  Turning to look at Abernathy, I see his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. His eyes are wide, and his nostrils are flaring. He’s gone pale and a faint tremble can be seen in the free edges of his jacket.

  “As you can see, Marshal Abernathy, what I told you was correct,” Sarah says softly from behind him, her voice low and soothing. “Please take your hand off your weapon, Marshal. We will not cause any trouble.” She lifts her head and raises her voice. “Brockten, you can put your weapon away now.”

  Brockten simply nods, murmurs under his breath, and holds his arm away from his body. The eighteen-inch long sword is reabsorbed into his palm. Once the metal is gone from sight, he stands still, both palms out, his mouth once more closed.

  “Holy Christ,” Abernathy mutters.

  I see the fingers of Sarah’s hand clench into Abernathy’s shoulder ever so slightly. The sensation of mental tingles increases.

  “What can I help you all with?” He looks around at the rest of first class seating, his face a little slack-jawed.

  “I could clear out first class. It won’t be completely private, but probably as close as you’re going to get on a plane.”

  “That will be fine, thank you,” I say before Brockten can make any more comments.

  “On it.” Abernathy moves off and directs the two other people in first class to move with him to the rear of the plane. He pulls the heavy curtains closed behind him.

  “Grab the one-armed bandit, and let’s get this started,” Brian says from beside me. He sounds a little too excited by the prospect.

  I shake my head as Brockten nods, his eyes sparkling just a little bit. I don’t have time to try to decipher Brockten’s physical expressions.

  Looking down at my arm, I’m a little shocked to see small groupings of puncture marks. Maybe the crazy lady actually had some kind of leeches on the ends of her fingers. I need to get a better look at her hand. Moving my head back and forth, I try to find the detached limb.

  Getting down on my hands and knees, I look under the rows of seats. It’s too dark to see very far, but I’m pretty sure I’ve located it a couple rows back near the window side of the seats.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Sarah.

  “What are you doing?” She moves over so I can slide past her.

  “Finding her hand.” I lean over the aisle seat, patting at the darkness below the seat next to the window. My hand bumps into something that feels like a cold lump of wax. I swallow back a scream and some bile that wants to jump out of my mouth.

  Getting my fingers around the wrist of the flight attendant’s hand has my forehead breaking out in a cold sweat and my ears ringing once again. I feel like I’ve just gotten off a Tilt-a-Whirl ride at the State Fair. I’m just glad I didn’t chuck this time.

  “Incoming.” I toss the limp appendage in the air towards the rest of my group and only hope someone will catch it.

  I remain stretched out across the seats, my head resting on the itchy fabric as I wait for my stomach to settle enough for me to get upright. A warm hand cups my thigh, a flood of warmth and comfort slides through my system.

  “Thanks, Sarah,” I say, not bothering to look up.

  “No problem. I couldn’t handle your nausea anymore.”

  “You can feel my sickness too?” Last I knew, she could only feel emotions.

  “Only with you. Everything about you is magnified. I’m guessing it has something to do with your adira and how it interacts with my powers.” I can hear the uncertainty in her voice.

  “We’ll have to ask Kez and Brock when we’re not thirty thousand feet in the air about to question an assassin.” I swallow one last time before attempting to sit up.

  Luckily, my stomach stays where God intended it to be. The brackish taste in my mouth leaves a little something to be desired though. I cough a couple times, trying to clear the acidic flavor. My abandoned can of Coke is pushed in my face.

  I look up. “Thanks, Brent. I owe you one.”

  He smiles. “You owe me more than one, but we don’t have time to discuss our tallies. Kez and Brock are waiting for you.” He tips his head towards the front of the plane.

  Tossing back the last couple swallows of Coke, I stand up, careful not to jack my head on the over-head storage compartments. Sometimes being tall does have its drawbacks. I move out into the aisle and make my way up to powwow with the rest of the interrogators.

  “…so yes, we can make you talk. In ways that you will find most unpleasant. At least until you die; that will be your only escape,” Brockten says. He’s leaning back, his arms crossed as if he’s discussing his favorite sports team with his buddies. But the multi-hued blues of his eyes glint like a frozen lake in the cold glare of sunshine.

  “Do what you will. I have served my queen faithfully; I’m to be rewarded.” The flight attendant sneers, her hate a living thing on her face.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, clutching my Coke in my hand.

  “You can call me Lazara.” She smiles at me, like she’s got a secret and she’s just waiting to tell it to me.

  “Well, Lazara, as Brock has mentioned, we have ways of making you talk. Why don’t you go easy on yourself, and just tell us what you’re aching to share? I can see it in your face, you’re special and the best of the best.”

  She preens a little, her movements hampered by the nylon seatbelts that have been detached from the seats and now wrap around her like a snake around its dinner.

  “I will tell you.” She flickers her red hair back. On the sides of her neck, barely discernable, are inch-long incisions. As I watch, they expand and contract. “Anixia has been increasing her bloodline for the last century.”

  Kez and Brock suck in a deep breath. Kez’s face looks like she’s been slapped by Hulk. Brock looks like he wants to rip Lazara in half with his bare hands.

  “How? All mergings are recorded in the Registry. The Makarnzeek is the only place that young can be kept until the adira sparks,” Kez says.

  Lazara just snorts.

  “Anixia is capable of anything.” Her eyes take on a fanatical gleam. “She is a Creative.”

  Crap, crap, crap.

  22

  Brockten The Stoic bursts out laughing. Head tipped back, abs drawn taut under his t-shirt, tears leaking from his eyes laughing. His bellows of laughter are pure, undiluted joy. The sound brings a smile to my own face.

  “You dare laugh at the power of Anixia?” Lazara snarls at him. Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. “She will crush you like a bug beneath her heel.”

  “Dunh, dunh, dunh.” I shake my free hand melodramatically. My other hand is still burning just a little bit.

  Kez snickers although she still looks a little wary.

  Lazara whips her head around and catches my gaze. “You are no
thing. You enter a fight you nothing about for people you know nothing about. A fight you cannot hope to win. Your efforts will be in vain. Now you will be killed, everyone you’ve ever loved will be killed. You should have stayed home like a good little girl. Anixia was content to leave you alone until you started poking around in her business. You will have no one to blame but yourself.” Spittle flies from Lazara’s lips, her fanatical eyes wheeling around in her head.

  I’m not sure her hamster is alive anymore. The wheel is turning but everything else is dead. Her dedication to crazy is almost commendable.

  “I’m not sure where your information comes from, but the only reason I’m in this fight is because Anixia killed my adoptive parents. This after trying to kill my best friend. She sucked me into her mind, not the other way around. Not to mention she kidnapped me and my boyfriend. So, sorry sweetheart, but you’re the one whose efforts have been in vain.” I shrug my shoulders. “Anixia started this fight. I’ll be the one ending it.”

  She stares at me like I’ve been speaking Greek. “Liar! You are attempting to remove her from power for your own gain. I am next in line for her throne, not some powerless idiot who is incapable of simple Psy-Matrix connection. You are a pretender and you will die for your audacity.” She strains against her improvised prison.

  “You want to pervert our beloved planet and turn it into your personal playground for your various lovers and playthings.” Her rapid blinking causes small contact lenses to fall from her eyes. The shocking lime and peridot greens of her eyes brighten her lined face making her seem almost ten years younger—much closer to my own age.

  “Nope, I’m pretty good on my own planet with my one guy, not plural. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

  “Truth,” Kez and Sarah interject.

  “You’re a whore, someone who uses her body to get her way. To get men and women to give you power that is not yours. You have absorbed hundreds of people in your quest to usurp Anixia. You lack any real power of your own, so you must steal from others. Even with all of that stolen power, you are still not strong enough to defeat her. She sent me to deal with you because you are not important enough to bother with. She has more important things to do than see that you exist no longer.”