Balance - Book 2
By Marc Dickason
Copyright 2015 by Marc Dickason
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Balance
Book 2
PROLOGUE
My mother was leaning over me, the meat cleaver in her hands.
“Mommy loves you,” she said.
“I love you too mommy,” I replied.
But already the blade was descending towards my wrist, cold razor edge glowing in the florescent light of the Sushi Palace.
‘Strange,’ I thought, ‘doesn’t she realise that’s sharp? Doesn’t she realise it will cut me? This is just some kind of joke. She wouldn’t…’
Skin split and parted, releasing a burst of blood ten clear inches across the table. Pink wetness was revealed beneath. My mother pushed; the blade sank deeper.
‘Stop!’ I wanted to cry out, ‘Stop it! You’ll kill me! You’ll kill me if you do that!’
But I could only watch, horrified, as blood first pooled, then began to disperse into the white tablecloth. Panic exploded; I tried desperately to withdraw the arm, body tensing in effort and muscles tightening into ropes, but it stubbornly refused to obey.
“Mother loves you,” she said again.
It was not Liza Clarence speaking, it was someone else. And I was not in the Sushi Palace as first thought; it was a penthouse, top floor of The Marlon. The table before me was laid out with playing cards and gambling chips.
“Mother loves you,” Conrad said, smiling, “Mother loves a winner, Jet.”
“How are you here?” I gasped, “You’re dead! I killed you!”
Panic spilled over into horror and I felt my Spirit crackle into life. Blue sparks blossomed in the air, dancing and popping eagerly, swirling as they fell into a slow orbit about my body. I called it and there was a shimmering as it moved to obey, gathering in the space before my eyes.
“Get away from me!” I heard myself yelling.
“Take it,” he replied, pushing the gambling chips towards me, “We both know you’re going to win. You’re cheating.”
He chuckled then pivoted up on his toes to angle more weight on the meat cleaver. The blade pushed through to the bone.
I screamed and released the Spirit. In response his face smashed flat, blood squirting from both nostrils as cartilage and cheek bones shattered. His head snapped back far enough I could have sworn the back of the skull struck the area between his shoulder blades. Then a limp body hit the wooden floor with a thud.
Silence. For a long time I stared, my mind telling me I had just committed murder, had taken a life and left an empty place in the world where a person should be. But, strangely, this knowledge did not register. I wasn’t sorry. I wasn’t sorry because…
“He deserved it,” a voice said.
I looked to my right and saw Brent Kingston, cheek pressed against the surface of a table adjacent to mine. A black bullet wound in his face leaked blood.
“They deserved it,” he said, eyes pleading.
“He didn’t deserve that,” I breathed, “He was just a boy. An arrogant, cocky boy. I didn’t mean to kill him, we just wanted the money. Your life depended on it, Brent.”
“Then help me,” he urged, “Please help me.”
I tried to stand, again feeling the muscles in my body contract. But I could not.
“I want to, Brent. But I can’t. I can’t move. You didn’t deserve that.”
He closed his eyes. Tears leaked over his nose. “Don’t let me die.”
I heard a shuffle behind me and looked round. A figure was crouched at the far end of the penthouse. Only, it was not a penthouse, but a small filthy room in Valhalla Hotel. On the wall a heart shaped florescent light glowed pink.
“They deserved it,” the figure said.
It was doing something; ripping with clawed hands at a ragged pile and wrenching out chunks of something wet. After a moment my eyes adjusted and I realised the ragged pile was a man. Heavyset loan shark, the man I had branded “Pout.” His skin was pale and eyes glazed.
“Stop that,” I said to the crouched figure, “Leave that man alone.”
A face turned to me. Red eyes in a blue face.
“They deserved it,” the demon said, plunging its fingers into Pout’s wobbling chest and grasping his heart.
“Leave that man alone!” I roared, “Leave him alone, you monster! Leave him alone!”
“Did I deserve it?” a new voice asked, thick Spanish accent dripping from every syllable.
I turned. Selena was watching me; body slouched in a wheelchair and eyes glazed. Her raven hair was a mess of cobwebs.
“Oh God, Selena,” I moaned, “What have they done to you?”
“What have you done to me,” she corrected.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t my doing; they needed someone to take the blame and you were just too obvious a choice. If it could’ve been someone else…”
A figure appeared behind her, easing into existence and gaining substance from background patterns. The Gloria-demon. It reached down with one gnarled hand and stroked Selena’s cheek.
“Mommy loves you,” it said to her, “Mommy loves you.”
“Leave her alone!” I roared, “Leave her alone…!”
“All of you leave me alone!”
My body was rigid, teeth clenched so tight my gums ached. Above me rectangles of moonlight painted the ceiling.
“Oh Christ, oh Jesus,” I heard myself moan.
Tears squeezed passed my clamped eyelids and trickled onto the bed. I opened them and regretted it. Faces were looming at me; images seared into my brain like burning photographs. I attempted to dispel them; they refused to be forgotten.
It was only then I registered the air was alive with dancing blue sparks, popping and crackling angrily as they orbited the bed. I closed my eyes again and sucked in deep breaths, grappling for my Place of Calm. But it would not be locked down. There was a fist of red hot coal in my stomach, floating in a pocket of flames that screamed and scorched.
“Not long now,” I told the flames, “Not long now. I’ll find her. I’ll find mother.”
The flames simmered and flickered; around me the sparks sizzled in the air and extinguished. Internal rivers of Spirit shifted, drawing in, redirecting.
“Not long now. I’ll find her. I’ll find her.”
The faces of Brent Kingston, Pout the loan shark, young Conrad, and Selena Stephania faded. Relief.
Time passed. I stared at the ceiling and listened to the sounds of a dozing city beyond my window. A car drifted by, somewhere else a siren declared that one or another law enforcement service were on the job. At some point I realised one of my hands had started massaging the wrist of the other, kneading at the scar without instruction. I stopped and tucked my hands under the pillow.
After an hour the TV came on in living room next door, indicating Benny was likewise unable to sleep. He had heard me, I knew. My nightmare induced screaming and moaning. But he would not ask about it, and I would not tell him.
I considered going to join watching whatever garbage happened to be on late night TV, but knew I should try getting back to sleep, that I had Academy lessons the next day and needed to be on top form. But one image residue remained in my head. Liza Clarence. Mother.
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