The Strange Path

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  “Shit!” She couldn’t believe she entertained such a preposterous idea. Reincarnation was as hokey as witchcraft, as ethereal as the existence of God, one of a hundred other theories that had been created to make humankind feel above the piles of crap to be slogged through during a lifetime. That didn’t make any of them true. Dorst hadn’t said anything about this being a possibility. He’d said people saw their futures or past. Whiskey had never seen any of this. Some sort of hallucination? Is that an option?

  Her emotions and body once more under her control, she grabbed up her belongings. She stuffed the Book back into her satchel, refusing the dwell on the sensual feel of the warm leather. Her lighter remained out long enough to shakily light a cigarette before she stuffed it into her pocket. She needed music and dance, and something to drive the images away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Whiskey slid through the crowd, flashing lights illuminating her path. With Tallulah’s closed, she’d come to Malice on a hunch. The bouncer with the golden/brown eyes had immediately allowed her entry. She knew he’d probably call Fiona, but at this point she didn’t care. The vision had left her with unspent arousal; Cora’s arrival would be a welcome relief. At the bar, she handed over her backpack and ordered a drink. The bartender recognized her, equably securing her belongings and sliding a glass of Chivas Regal toward her.

  No one touched her, the dancers in her path stepping aside automatically with seemingly no thought about why her presence caused them to shift out of her way. She grinned, wondering at this newfound power. Reaching a corner of the dance floor, she set her drink on a nearby table, and began to dance. The music pounded in her blood, crashed against her skin, and raised her to a more familiar trance-like state. Nothing but bass and drum and guitar, techno and rock and pop. So much better than those bizarre chants; clean, pure, true. She relaxed into the known, sighing in relief that this had not been sullied. Eyes closed, she felt alone and separate. Her senses crooned to her, whispered the truth of her surroundings; the nearness of other dancers, the smells of food and sweat and sex. Time had no meaning. A rejuvenation coursed through her, her separation of self fading the longer she danced. Reveling in the moment, she feasted on the excited, youthful atmosphere around her, somehow gaining sustenance in the process.

  She drew attention. She couldn’t tell how she knew with her eyes closed. Perhaps it was an extension of what had happened at Tallulah’s with Dorst, or maybe seeing the woman of her dreams in the garden had triggered this knowing. The thought of the woman derailed Whiskey’s sense of self for a split second, a vision of the woman crying out in passion overloading her. Whiskey shook her head, pushed it away. The subtle aura of the dancers reaffirmed itself and shifted, a bubble of intensity focusing in on her, drawing closer. She ignored it for the moment, too drunk on the music and lust, almost wishing for the change to go away. She had enough to deal with tonight. Surrounding her, insistent, the bubble condensed.

  Opening her eyes, Whiskey saw an older woman circling her, dancing separately but mimicking her moves. Whiskey looked her over. She couldn’t be more than twenty-six or so, no taller than her, maybe an inch shorter if the boots were any indication. The woman’s Levi’s and tight Henley shirt fit her well. Dark brown hair curled around the collar, while brown eyes regarded Whiskey with a speculative smile.

  Whiskey breathed in again, almost swooning at the smell of the woman—a mixture of cologne, soap and musky excitement. Her body’s arousal flowed through her with liquid heat. She quirked her lips in a welcome smile as she acknowledged her dance partner, adjusting her steps to include the woman. On a different level, she felt the bubble coalesce around them, closing out other noises and voices. Emboldened, the woman eased closer, dark eyes flickering over the lithe body before her, an answering grin on her face.

  Previous experience dictated a very short dance. Most adults looking for an evening’s entertainment rarely stayed long after a choice had been made. Not wanting to prolong the seduction, Whiskey stepped forward, pressing against the woman, arms lightly draped over her shoulders. Hands found her waist, riding her hips as their bodies melded into each other.

  Feeling the woman against her heightened sense of touch, Whiskey gasped at the physical rush. The hands at her waist slid easily beneath her camisole, fingers gently massaging the skin of her lower back, easing down over her cargo pants to squeeze her rear. She pressed against the thigh between her legs, grinding in time with the music. Burying her hands in dark brown curls and tasting the woman’s lips, Whiskey delved deeply with her tongue. Around them, dancers continued their gyrations, making the couple sole occupants in a circle of sound.

  ***

  The woman tugged her through the dark doorway. “This way.”

  Whiskey followed her into a small living area. She saw comfortable mismatched furniture, a fireplace with a hearth that spanned the width of the room, and a small entertainment center sans television. The woman, unable to see, moved tentatively, one hand questing before her toward a lamp. Whiskey smiled, releasing her hand.

  Turning, the woman reached out, but Whiskey stepped aside. “Okay,” she said with a laugh. “Stay there, and I’ll light some candles.”

  Whiskey found the woman’s giggle irritating. She ignored the flash of displeasure. “Don’t bother.” She moved behind her, slipping her hands forward to caress the woman’s belly and chest. “I see all I need.” Her vision had sharpened as much as her hearing and smell. She couldn’t quite explain the difference to herself other than the available light from a distant streetlamp provided plenty of illumination. She found it curious that the woman couldn’t see much at all.

  Her need pulsed stronger with each heartbeat as she slid her hands under the Henley. Any thought of prolonging this liaison fled from the rush of heat in her groin as the woman accepted her control, relaxing against her, gasping as Whiskey pinched and massaged her breasts. Whiskey nuzzled the lithe neck, unable to resist the temptation to nibble. She roughly cupped the woman’s sex through the jeans, finding the material slightly moist as she squeezed.

  The woman’s hips hitched, and she groaned aloud, panting. She brought her arm up to caress the long hair behind her, baring her neck for further attention in the process. Her free hand slid down Whiskey’s arm, pressing the hand at her crotch as close as possible.

  Lost to the smells and sounds and sensations, Whiskey soon had her partner naked. The woman was splayed across the couch, playing with her breasts as Whiskey concentrated on other areas. On sensory overload, her mind and body were one, a wall of fiery need that blotted out everything else. Beneath her lips and tongue, she felt as well as heard the rapid pulse of her conquest. Heated skin against her cheek, liquid desire beneath her mouth, the essence she desired pumping just under the surface.

  A scream and a curse forced her out of her fugue. The woman scrambled backward along the couch away from her. Whiskey, disconcerted, tried to engage her partner again as she moved forward, the copper taste in her mouth inciting her passion. The resounding slap drove her back, clearing her head.

  “You bitch! What the fuck are you doing?”

  Whiskey rocked back on her heels, shaking her head. The woman fumbled with a lamp, switching it on. Whiskey winced, and covered her eyes at the sudden blinding. She heard another angry curse, and peered through her fingers.

  “Christ! I’m bleeding! You fucking bit me!”

  A smattering of blood flowed from a puncture on the woman’s inner thigh, sluggish and glittering in the lamplight. Whiskey licked her lips, tasting the copper mixed with musky lubrication. She felt another rush of need wash over her, the woman’s blood calling her soul. Sudden disgust rolled through her, and she stumbled back.

  “What are you waiting for? Get the fuck out of here before I call the police, bitch!”

  Whiskey barely had the sense to collect her shirt and pack before stumbling from the apartment, leaving the door standing open. Behind her, she heard the woman swearing, threatening police an
d legal action. By the time Whiskey reached the fire exit down the hall, the apartment door slammed shut and two locks clicked into place. She burst through the stairway door, and staggered down, struggling into her shirt as she went. The coolness of the evening washed over her as she stepped outside. Letting the door close on well-oiled hinges, she leaned against the wall beside it, panting.

  What just happened?

  Licking her lips again, she tasted the last of the woman’s blood. It exploded across her taste buds, awakening a hunger she hadn’t known existed. She used her fingers to search for more around her mouth that she may have missed. Dizziness swept over her. She crouched against the brick, putting her head between her knees to keep from fainting. Several moments passed before she felt strong enough to move. A distant siren brought her head up, wondering if the woman had made good on her threat. Whiskey didn’t need an assault charge on her record. At eighteen, there’d be no juvenile detention for her; she’d spend her time in county jail. Even Fiona couldn’t save her from this.

  She pushed away from the wall, and walked briskly away, strapping her backpack around her waist. Her thoughts and emotions swirled into a muddy cloud, making it impossible to think. She sped up, instinctively trying to outrun the miasma of confusion only to have it keep pace with her. Soon she trotted, then ran, lungs and legs and shoulders burning with the exertion. She ran until she could run no more. Legs heavy, knees and hips automatically pumping despite hot iron pokers probing the joints with every movement, she lurched into an intersection. A loud horn and a curse barely alerted her in time as a car screeched to a halt. Her forward motion pushed her to fall across the hood.

  “God damn it! What’s the matter with you!” the driver yelled out his window. “Get the fuck off my car and pay attention, idiot! The light’s green!”

  Rage washed over her. She opened her mouth, and hissed at the driver, baring her teeth. His face blanched in response, and she heard his heart sputter in fear. She smelled the terror coming from him. Her mouth watered, the bizarre response causing her to shake her head in befuddlement.

  He laid on his horn. “Fucking psycho! Go on! Get outta here! Jesus!”

  She tottered around the vehicle, stumbling onto the curb as the driver pulled away with a screech. Leaning against a signpost, she noted her location. She’d run toward light and human occupation, coming to a halt on University Way. She gasped, trying to catch her breath. It wasn’t as late as she’d thought. Several bars were still open, and the traffic fairly heavy. Pedestrians wandered the sidewalk; couples leaving late dinners, barhoppers roaming to the next establishment, a rare handful of street walkers showing off their wares to passing vehicles.

  Finally able to breathe, she wiped an arm across her forehead, feeling the heat from the exertion. She refused to think about what happened, focusing her mind on getting back to the flop she’d chosen for herself. The motorcycle was still at Malice. It would be easier for her to catch a bus, and pick up the bike tomorrow. As if in answer to her thought, a bus blew by, stopping a block away before continuing on. She forced herself forward, her legs rubber, cursing her luck. It’d be at least a half hour before another came by.

  Maybe I should call Reynhard.

  Abrupt relief weakened her knees again, and for that reason she rejected the idea. Dorst might have the answers, but she’d go to him on her own terms, not because she’d freaked out. Besides, she was two for two—he’d told her to retire immediately after each meditation, which she hadn’t yet done. She couldn’t expect him to clean up her messes, especially when she willfully defied his instructions.

  Whiskey made it to the bus stop, and sank onto a bench. Traffic whizzed past, all lights and noise. Her oversensitive eyes ached, and she closed them, grimacing at the oncoming headache. Her stomach gurgled, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to repeat her error from last time by getting something to eat. While she waited, she wondered why it had taken so long for the illness to catch up to her. After the first chant, she’d come down with the migraine within the hour. It’d been three hours or more tonight.

  Still puzzling over the question when the bus arrived, Whiskey boarded the transport and paid her fare. Normally she’d head for the rear seats, but the lights were too bright back there. Instead, she dropped onto the bench behind the driver. She curled up there, sunglasses on, staring at the passing city.

  ***

  “What’s done is done,” a man said.

  “Stay with me, ’m’cara! We will get you to a healer and soon you will be fine.”

  Whiskey shook her head, her laugh a wasted echo of what it should be. “Nay, Margaurethe. It is beyond that; we both know it.” She coughed, the spasms causing her blood to flow a little faster from the deep wound in her thigh.

  “No! You cannot die, Elisibet.”

  “Apparently so, minn ’ast. Will you forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  She shivered. “It is so cold, Margaurethe. Hold me.”

  The world went dark.

  ***

  Whiskey sat upright, breathing rapidly. Late afternoon sunlight slid through the warped plywood nailed across the window, illuminating the lazy dance of dust motes. Beyond the flimsy divider, she heard rush hour traffic passing the flophouse. After a futile search for the mortal wound on her thigh, she slumped with a sigh, cradling her face in her hands. That stupid nightmare would not go away. Weird how I suddenly know what they’re saying. Last night’s meditation must have had something to do with that. Somehow, the dream and the vision had crossed wires in her mind. That didn’t mean either of them were real, just that her subconscious picked up pieces of both and mixed them together. The woman—Margaurethe O’Toole—had an Irish accent in the dream this time.

  Whiskey frowned. We weren’t speaking English. How would I know an Irish accent from a Chinese one in a language I’ve never heard? Trying to reason that shit out made her head throb, and she put it aside. Neither the nightmare nor those visions were real. Dorst had said the chants were created to restructure the Sanguire mind to adulthood; these fancies were just her brain’s attempt at making sense of the crap going on inside her head.

  Pleased with her deduction, she took stock of her body. Starving, but that wasn’t anything new. No headache, no sickness. She didn’t have any obvious new abilities. Her hearing and sight were just as acute as they were the day before, maybe more so. She heard conversations spoken a block away inside an office building, regardless of the rumble of vehicles on the street outside. Her eyesight allowed her to zero in on a tiny fly in the uppermost corners of the room. Concentrating, she heard the soft burr of it rubbing its legs together.

  “Wow.” She pulled back her attention, a smile on her face. “Wicked.”

  Her stomach reminded her how long it had been since she’d eaten. A quick check of her pockets netted a grand total of three dollars and forty-six cents. Enough for a burger at a fast-food joint. Not enough for the rest of the night, though. She could always head downtown to Malice, pick up the Ducati, and head over to Fiona’s. Frowning, she nixed the idea. She couldn’t treat Fiona as an easy resource, something that would always be there. Her experience argued otherwise. There might always be social services in some form or other to access for assistance, but depending on private individuals was too dangerous.

  Besides, she still didn’t know about Fiona’s motives.

  She decided to go to the Youth Consortium a few blocks away. Not only could she pick up some food vouchers, and maybe a leftover boxed lunch, she could see how far the padre had gotten on her birth certificate. She folded and rolled her sleeping bag.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sidewalk outside the consortium building looked vacant. Whiskey, who didn’t own a watch, swore to herself as she neared. Her suspicions proved correct when she saw the Closed sign on the glass door. “Damn it!” Grabbing the handle, she gave the door a rattle, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. “Fuck.”

  She used her hand to
block the glare of sunlight, and peered inside. Beyond the entry alcove with its free newspaper stands and cluttered community bulletin board, she saw the darkened waiting room. She squinted, focusing on the wall clock at the far wall. Her new visual acuity kicked in, zooming her vision until the numbers blurred from the extreme magnification. She wavered on her feet, grabbing at the handle to remain standing against the vertigo. “Whoa!”

  Whiskey removed her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes before trying again. This time she managed it with less abruptness. The clock confirmed the consortium had been closed for over a half hour. Disgusted, she pushed away, and continued down the street. She admitted to herself that she’d wanted to see the priest again more than anything. Her life had taken such a weird turn, the idea of chatting with someone safe and separate from the madness had been alluring. Getting food vouchers had been secondary to seeing a familiar face.

  At the corner, she looked down the east side of the consortium building, seeing the high office windows. A smile quirked her lips. I wonder if he’s still in there? She rounded the corner, and peered at the windows, pleased to see ceiling lights on in some offices. If I can just narrow down which one is his... Centering her attention on the windows, she allowed her hearing to sharpen.

  Several of the offices still held people. She heard papers rustle, file cabinets opening and closing, phone conversations, and the muted clicking of keyboards. Everyone still in the building was intent on getting their work completed to go home, rather than chat with each other. There was no way she could tell who was who of the silent ones. Maybe if she focused more. Dropping her pack on the sidewalk, she leaned against a light pole and closed her eyes.