The Origin

by Youkey, Wilette

  He may have super powers, but his is no hero's story...

  For someone who has no idea how he acquired his special abilities, all Daniel wants is to live a simple, emotionally detached life. He has a quiet day job, a solo night job and no social life to speak of, and that's just the way he likes it.

  That is until Olivia King, a woman from a past he'd rather leave behind, talks her way back into his life and he discovers that he is neither strong nor fast enough to fight off the attraction. Just when he finally accepts that she could be a permanent fixture in his life, Olivia disappears and he upends New York City to try and save the day.

  But when being honorable doesn’t get him results, Daniel yields to the dark pull of his powers, committing unspeakable acts in order to rescue the only person he’s trusted with his secrets. And just when his life could not possibly get more complicated, a psychic delivers some damning news that will pit his own happiness against the safety of those around him.

  Daniel has never considered himself a hero, but in the end, as he looks at the blood on his hands, he wonders if he isn’t the villain of the story after all.

  The Origin is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Wilette Youkey. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from either the author or the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote a brief passage in a review.

  Produced by Phoenix House Press.

  Cover design by Wilette Youkey.

  Drustan Nebula image by Ali Ries.

  DEDICATION

  To my daughters, Amelia and Abigail.

  May you grow to be confident, industrious

  and, most importantly, kind.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are not enough words in the English language to express how grateful I am for all the help I've received in the making of this novel. To that end, I shall have to go global...

  I would like to first express gratitude to my family near and far. Your love and support mean the world to me. Maraming salamat.

  Merci beaucoup goes out to my beta readers, who gave me valuable insight and helped shape this story. Also to my editor and mentor, MJ Heiser, who not only corralled many a wayward comma but also lit the way to my self-publishing journey.

  Danke schön to my writer friends, who constantly inspire me to improve.

  To those I bugged over the years to read my stories, arigato.

  Muchas gracias as well to my designer friends who gave me a fresh eye when my own have crossed from staring so long at the computer.

  And to my husband, Mark: spasiba for being the man that you are. You make me proud to be your wife. Moo.

  “Oh, but these stories don’t mean anything if you’ve got no one to tell them to.”

  – The Story, Brandi Carlile

  PROLOGUE

  The silence was absolute, a big exclamation mark over the football field.

  Daniel didn’t notice the lack of noise at first as he palmed the pigskin above his head in jubilation, rejoicing in his third touchdown of the night. Eventually, the absence of cheering from the home crowd sank in. Even his teammates, who had been chest-bumping seconds before, were now all transfixed by the scene behind him.

  With his euphoria fraying at the edges, Daniel held his breath and turned around, not fully prepared for the sight of the opposing team's linebacker, a mountain of a high-schooler nicknamed Rap, laying motionless on the grass.

  Daniel watched as coaches, medics and teammates descended upon Rap in slow motion, removing his helmet and calling his name to rouse him from unconsciousness.

  Finally, after what seemed like a year, Rap's brown eyes fluttered open and peered around in confusion. A huge whoop of relief erupted all around, a sentiment that Daniel shared tenfold.

  “He’ll be fine,” said Daniel’s coach, Mr. Grosse. “That was some tackle, Johnson! I’m surprised you held onto the ball.”

  But even as Mr. Grosse spoke, Rap began to cry out. “I can’t move, Coach! I can’t feel my legs!” His burly, dark hands flailed about, grasping at anything within reach for answers. “Why can’t I feel my legs?”

  Still rooted to the spot, Daniel fixed his grey eyes on the scene as they loaded the hysterical two hundred and thirty-pound linebacker onto a stretcher with some difficulty. Daniel’s mind screamed at him to walk over and help, that his strength would be useful in lifting Rap off the field, but his muscles refused to move. What if they asked him how he had managed to hurt someone almost twice his size?

  As six men carried the stretcher away, Daniel tensed up as a hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he spun around, a denial ready on his tongue.

  “Damn, dude! What did you do to him?” his teammate said.

  Daniel forced a casual shrugged. “I don’t know.” It was a boldfaced lie. If anybody ever found out his fantastic secret, he could be kicked off the team, go to jail, or the most unthinkable and inevitable of all, end up dissected in a research lab. For what else could happen to a kid who just learned that he was stronger and faster than anybody he’d ever known?

  No, his was a secret Daniel could never tell.

  1 | TEN YEARS LATER

  New York City truly never slept. Even at fourteen minutes past midnight, long after most people had retired to the relative safety of their beds, the city was still vibrating with life. Trash cans moved with unknown visitors, air vents blew out puffs of smoke, cars droned by. But of the entire nocturnal symphony, only one sound was of immediate concern to Daniel Johnson, and that was the ragged wheezing of the person cradled in his arms.

  He avoided looking at the unconscious woman as he ran, afraid that he wouldn’t be fast enough to reach the hospital in time. He didn’t know who she was, avoided actually caring, but he had an obligation to get her medical care seeing as she was bleeding in several places and was not even conscious to realize it.

  Daniel had been done for the night – had already thwarted a burglary and a mugging – when he’d seen a scraggy man in dirty clothes straddling a woman who was sprawled on the concrete. Though her arms had been up, they hadn’t protected her face from the punching, slapping and even clawing that the man was dealing. It was only when Daniel got closer that he realized the man’s real intention: he meant to pry that woman’s mouth apart, and he didn’t care if he had to tear her jaw off, or even kill her completely, in order to achieve that goal.

  Within moments, Daniel had pulled the frenzied man off the woman and had bound his ankles and wrists with zip ties. But the man was a hellcat and had still struggled on the ground, sweat-stained and screaming, “Give it to me, you fat bitch! I know you have it!”

  Daniel had recognized the signs – the skeletal face, the dilated pupils – and had confirmed his theory a few moments later when he’d turned to the now-motionless woman and had found a tiny vial of crack cocaine hidden under the folds of her tongue.

  “That’s mine!” the man had screamed, floundering on the ground in hopes of reaching his precious drug. “Give it to me! That ho stole it from my sock drawer!”

  “Who is she?” Daniel had said calmly, searching for a pulse on her neck through his thin leather gloves. Bingo.

  “My sister. She nicked my purple caps!”

  Daniel had used a nearby phone booth to call the police, confident that Crack Guy would be found within a few minutes. With the revulsion stuck in his throat, he’d picked up the unconscious woman and had fled for the hospital as fast as his legs
could manage. But even though he could move swiftly, he was not nearly fast enough for his liking on nights like these.

  As he laid the woman gently in a wheelchair at the emergency room entrance, he looked her over, making sure he did not leave a single trace of himself. The police would be looking for any fibers or fingerprints and would interview all involved to try and find a clue on Daniel’s identity. But so far, the NYPD’s search for the black-clad vigilante had yielded nothing.

  Later on, as Daniel lay alone in his bed, he busied his mind with thoughts of Victoria’s Secret models, of baseball, of the recession – anything to keep the nausea at bay – for if he allowed himself to absorb the evil that he bore witness to night after night, evidence of the horrors of the human soul, he would surely be overcome with emotion. And a small part of him knew that if he allowed that anger and grief to saturate his thoughts, he could possibly go mad with power and deem himself judge, jury and executioner for anyone he encountered. Taking lives could become so easy.

  No, he could never allow himself to look at that victim’s face as she lay dying in his arms, never feel the pity and the hatred course like searing water through his veins. Emotions were a dangerous luxury, and even the tiniest amount could crumble his wall of restraint and self-preservation.

  Had he known just how much emotions would come to rule his life, he might have opted to call in sick from work the next day.

  * * * * *

  “Thank you, young man. How are you doing today?” The elderly lady with hair like white cotton candy shuffled along as Daniel held the door open.

  “Fine, ma’am.” Daniel hated this aspect of his job, the forced interaction with strangers. He was a security guard at Chase Bank, for crying out loud, not a door greeter at some trashy grocery store.

  He sat back down on his stool – his guard post as his goofy manager often referred to it – and swept a critical eye across the long and narrow bank lobby, looking out for any suspicious characters, though they had not had any disturbances recently. At least not since the guy who had attempted a robbery and instead ended up eating the faux-marble floor a few minutes later, the bottom of Daniel’s boots squarely on his back. The poor guy had learned a very valuable lesson that Daniel hoped would fan out to other would-be marble floor eaters: that the Chase Bank on Frederick Douglass Boulevard was off-limits. Two incident-free months had passed since he first donned his blue sentry uniform; nobody dared step a toe out of line around the scowling Daniel Cael Johnson.

  He was still scowling as he pondered his lunch choices from the café across the street – chicken salad or roast beef sandwich? – when a gust of cold air announced the arrival of yet another Chase client. The woman, who had her back to him, was tall and lithe with sable hair that hung in waves down to her shoulder blades. She wore dark jeans that hugged her curves tucked into black leather boots and a red leather jacket that cinched at the waist. As with all the women he initially saw from behind, he bet that her front would not be able to cash the check that her back had written.

  She approached the information desk clerk and immediately Stephen Sommers, the bank manager, scurried out of his office to greet her. From the way he was acting, Daniel wondered if she was a Rockefeller or someone else made of money.

  He watched as Stephen ushered the woman off to his office, her long legs and nice ass moving gracefully, her hair swaying to the same rhythm as her hips, and Daniel found himself mildly hypnotized.

  Perhaps she was Stephen’s new girlfriend that he’d been bragging about? The woman appeared to be way out of Stephen’s league, but that had never stopped the short, slightly overweight man before. Stephen had confidence to spare and women responded favorably, surprisingly enough.

  Daniel turned his attention back to the bank, keeping a close eye on a young man who approached a teller with a baseball cap. Three caps, one beanie, and one Stetson hat later, Stephen finally emerged from his office, and Daniel held his breath as the woman followed him out.

  God, I seriously need a life, he thought right before she moved into his view and his initial theory was completely and utterly debunked.

  The woman turned out to be all three on Daniel’s Chick Checklist. Beautiful: check. Pretty smile: check. Nice rack: check, pending further investigation. What he saw of her breasts in her jacket weren’t particularly big or voluptuous but they seemed the right size for her thin frame. And for Daniel, who had no cause to be picky as he hadn’t touched a pair in years, they were perfect. Breasts were breasts, after all.

  As she walked towards the exit, he couldn’t help but notice the way she carried herself, so graceful and almost regal in her posture. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was a dancer or perhaps a runway model.

  “Excuse me…”

  He blinked twice, not realizing that she was looking directly at him. “Yeah?” He cleared his throat, recovering his wits. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  She walked over and said in a soft, husky voice, “Have we met?”

  He searched her face, but found nothing familiar in her delicate features. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you…” Her eyes lit up. “Daniel Johnson from Westmoore High?”

  He regarded the woman through narrowed eyes, with all of his earlier fantasies dying at the mention of his alma mater. If she knew him from Westmoore, then she had undoubtedly heard of the rumors that had circulated about him in his senior year.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “I’m Olivia King,” she said with a warm smile, reaching for his hand and giving it a firm shake. “We went to high school together.”

  “Oh. Ah, great.” He extricated his hand from her grasp, hoping he hadn’t squeezed it too hard from anxiety, though he guessed she would have screamed in agony if he had.

  She cocked her head and regarded him with interest. “You haven’t changed much since high school, I see.” She looked at him for a long moment, before saying, “Would you like to go out to dinner?”

  He avoided looking at the soft swell of her lips. He had spent years evading the past and now that it had found him, he wasn’t about to invite it to his doorstep, attractive though it were. “Thanks, but no.”

  Olivia blinked up at him with her astonishing violet eyes and a small smile formed on her lips. “Déjà vu. You turned me down in high school too.”

  Daniel’s eyebrow shot up. “I did?” He couldn’t imagine turning down a date with someone so attractive and sure of herself, unless, of course, she had been a troll back then. That or she had asked after the accident, in which case, he would have said no even if she’d been a supermodel.

  “I’ll tell you about it over dinner,” she said in a confident tone that left him no room to negotiate. She handed him a round-edged calling card with her full name and phone number. “So it’s a date then. Meet me at Sunday Sushi tonight at seven thirty.” The self-assurance in her husky voice was intoxicating and he found himself nodding along.

  This is crazy, he thought as he watched her walk through the glass doors with a parting wave. He couldn’t figure out how she had managed to talk him into a date; women had tried but had been unsuccessful, as he had hung up his dating cap during his junior year in college. But somehow, this olive-skinned woman had managed to persuade him to don it once more.

  Just this one time. I just want to know what she has to say.

  He shook his head in grudging admiration as he examined her card. Though it said “ballet dancer” on it, judging from the way she had just fast-talked him, Daniel decided that Olivia Mei King definitely had a future in used car sales.

  * * * * *

  The time was six o’clock when Daniel got off work as the other guard to relieve him had called in due to a family emergency. Any other day, Daniel would have been more than happy to cover since his Fridays were not that exciting, at least, not in the traditional sense. But this particular Friday was different as he, Mr. Absolutely No Social Life, actually had a date. And that required a shower, or at the very least, a seco
nd swipe of deodorant.

  He was still thumbing the raised lettering of Olivia’s calling card in his pocket when he heard someone yelling, “Stop! Help!” A woman across the busy road was waving frantically, pointing to a man running down the street.

  Daniel sprung into action. He launched himself into traffic, sidestepping and jumping over moving cars like an artful form of dodge ball. When he reached the sidewalk, he all but disappeared, becoming nearly invisible to the naked eye as he gave swift chase. He wove through the crowd of pedestrians with finesse, as if time slowed for everyone but him. It had taken years of practice, but Daniel had finally mastered the art of not crashing into objects when he exercised tremendous speed.

  The few people who tried running after the purse-snatcher gave up soon after, not having the stamina to maintain the chase. But Daniel’s cardiovascular endurance was not that of a normal human being’s. Nothing about him could be considered normal; he doubted he could even be called a homo sapiens anymore.

  Seven seconds elapsed before Daniel caught up with the thief in a narrow alley. The man was pulling himself up on the bottom rung of an open fire escape when Daniel grabbed hold of his jacket and pulled him down onto the pavement, much gentler than he wanted so as not to break the guy’s back, and he fell with a loud grunt.