Misery’s Way
By
J.C. Daniels
Misery’s Way Copyright 2015 J.C. Daniels
Bladed Magic Copyright 2014 J.C. Daniels
Excerpt from Final Protocol 2015 J.C. Daniels
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, and actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Chapter One
Some people crave chocolate.
Some people crave alcohol.
Some people crave a pretty new pair of shoes—and I’m not adverse to them myself.
Actually, if you catch me on the right night, I might want chocolate, alcohol, and a pretty new pair of shoes.
But I don’t crave those things.
I crave only two things.
Well, that’s a lie. There is a third thing, but I don’t know if I’ll tell you about the third. That’s a story for another time. There might come a time when I’ll tell you about that third thing. If you ask me nicely.
But those first two things? Well, I suppose I have to tell you, don’t I? Otherwise, there’s no first story.
These needs are simple, really.
I crave suffering.
Oh, come on now. Don’t look at me that way. I know it sounds terrible, but it’s just part of what I am. From time to time, I just need to be around suffering—I feed on it, the way a vampire needs to draw emotion from the blood he takes in.
The good thing is that I can’t exist on misery alone. I need something more.
If suffering was the only thing I needed, I’d probably be a miserable piece of work. Can you imagine the sort of soul I’d be if all I ever surrounded myself with was misery?
I’m … well, we’ll just say I’m complicated and leave it at that.
Yes, there’s a part of me that is drawn to somebody in agony—a part that revels in it—delights in it. It’s like that ugly little part of my soul comes out of me and wallows in the mud of that pain like a mutant pig.
The rest of me stands by and watches and bides its time. Because once that part of me has fed, my other half steps up. That part of me is stronger, and while this side needs the suffering just as much, it needs it in a different way.
This part yearns to fix pain. It longs to heal.
I told you I was complicated.
That vile and twisted part of me all but dances when people hurt—Katrina back in the early part of the century, 9/11, the war that raged when humans found out they shared their precious planet with people who could sprout fur or grow fangs or spin fire in the palm of their hands? Those were glutinous times.
I spent a great deal of my life hating that miserable part of myself. Now she’s only allowed out on rare occasions, but I’ve learned that sometimes, even the monsters have a role to play.
My other self isn’t particularly a Pollyanna. She’s a realist, if anything. Suffering, like everything else, is a part of life.
It’s a particular part of mine and that compulsion isn’t one I can fight, not if I want to survive.
That other side of me is drawn to suffering as much as the rest of me, but it’s a different sort of draw. I must … ease it. It’s a true need, too. Not a desire or a want. But a compulsion, a need, something I must do in order to survive.
In this day and age, it’s becoming more and more complicated.
Especially since I don’t really want my secrets getting out.
Science has explained away a lot of things these days—and it tries to explain away even more. I can only imagine the reactions I’d get if some doctor or scientist out there caught one of my events and watched as I lay my hands on a man dying of cancer, watched as I took away not just his pain, but the very poison that was killing him.
It would get very, very weird.
There’s no way I’m registering myself as this country’s government seems to think those … non-humans should do.
What a laugh.
Non-humans.
No, I’m not human.
The vast majority of those they require to register as non-human are, as far as I’m concerned, still very, very human. Altered human, perhaps, but a shapeshifter who was born human and bitten still looks human to my eyes. A vampire is closer to non-human, perhaps. As the soul dies, so does a creature’s humanity. Perhaps the natural-born shapeshifter has a better argument against being human, but if it looks human, smells human, acts human …
To me, most of the creatures on this planet are human.
I’m not. I never was.
The pure and simple truth of it, though? I’d give anything to be human.
“It’s crowded tonight.”
I glanced up at the man who’d slipped up to join me. I stood just outside the curtain of the tent. Through the slit, I could peer inside, and the darkness of the night kept them from seeing me. It was one of the few remaining moments of solitude, of peace, that I’d have for the next little while.
Saleel’s presence didn’t disturb that solitude.
He was as welcome as the whisper of air against my skin, as the twinkle of stars overhead.
He was a reminder of what I did have—even if I didn’t have something as simple and coveted as humanity, I had my life. I had freedom. And I had him as my companion.
We shared a moment of comfortable silence before I looked back inside.
“You’re restless,” he said after another moment.
I wasn’t surprised he’d noticed. Saleel noticed everything.
I slanted a look up at him. “I guess I’m getting bored here. Ready to move on. Have you scouted out the next spot?”
Saleel lifted one shoulder. “Yes. Montana. I tire of the heat.”
“Montana?” I grimaced and mentally shuddered. Summer was rapidly drawing to a close. That would mean cold. Snow. Worse … ice. “I hate the cold.”
I’d spent many of my earliest years in the muggy heat of America’s south—or in the heart of Africa. There were a handful of years that had been spent … elsewhere, but I try not to think about that.
Heat was simply bred into my bones. I could handle the cold, but that didn’t mean I liked it.
Saleel’s teeth flashed white in the faintest of smiles when he glanced at me. “Then perhaps next time when I ask you if you have a preference, you should give me an answer. Instead, you say, Do whatever you want, Sal.”
He managed an imitation of my voice that was almost dead-on.
I stuck my tongue out at him.
He went back to staring into the tent. “Offer your tongue again, my angel, and I will make use of it.”
Yeah. Right.
The two of us were like gasoline and fire and we both knew it. Combustible—and dangerous.
“Promises, promises,” I said lightly, and then I eased closer, bracing my shoulder on the lightweight metal of the doorframe, gazing deeper into the tent.
Saleel was right.
I was restless.
But I hadn’t yet figured out why.
A hot summer wind caressed the back of my neck. I enjoyed it while I could. Once I got inside, the air would be stifling. Already, I was dreading it. I could smell the heat of too many bodies and the air was thick with sweat. Heavy with despair.
Hope clung to many of the people who awaited me, but hope was a capricious bi
tch. I could all but hear the cackling, gleeful laugh as she darted from one person to another, crooning, You don’t really think this will work, do you? You’re going to die … You’re all going to die …
Fans churned from all corners, laboriously whirring away. They did little to cool the temperature, but at least the air kept moving.
It wasn’t the heat, though, that plagued me. It wasn’t even the promise of death. People died. It was simply part of life. It wasn’t the despair or the misery—the hunger inside me reached for that, but that wasn’t what made me restless.
“It’s time,” Saleel murmured.
I nodded.
But still, I didn’t move, searching inside the tent.
“Frankie?”
“I’m going.” I took a deep breath and reached deep inside for the well of calm that would carry me through when I took another’s pain inside me. I craved pain—fed on it.
That didn’t mean it was pleasant.
The twisted duality of my nature made me crave the misery even as I knew it would later cause me plenty of my own misery. My body already dreaded it. My stomach knotted and my muscles tensed and my legs tried to resist my head’s commands to move.
As I moved to the simple podium set up on the dais, I did a brief scan of the crowd. If there was anybody in there with a bad heart or other such frailty, I’d deal with them first. Maybe that’s all it was—somebody could be hovering right on the edge of life. I’d had that happen before.
There were plenty of those who did—or claimed to do—what I did, and they would have thrived on healing somebody with a failing heart or stopping a stroke in action. It was pure drama.
But I wasn’t there to cash in on dramatic moments or inspire awe.
Terrible as it sounds, I was just there to feed.
My quick scan told me everything I needed to know. An elderly woman up front needed to get her pacemaker checked, but she wasn’t in immediate danger—still, I’d do what I could tonight before she left. Hearts were always tricky.
“Welcome!” My manager, Jody Wilson, lifted her hands and waited for the applause to die down.
I paused a few feet from my spot and waited. The crowd was deafening. Despite the cacophony, I could hear just fine—including the scattered mutters of She’s a fraud, Man, look how tall she is, I would kill to have those cheekbones …
The curtain at the back opened and as a couple of people slid in, I cast them a casual glance.
They might as well have brought an electrical storm with them, and my second glance wasn’t so casual. Tension shot through me. I felt like I had a leash around my neck and I was being jerked right toward them.
You …
The restlessness I’d felt all night suddenly made sense.
It hadn’t been the heat. It hadn’t been boredom.
I’d been waiting. And I’d been waiting for them.
But I couldn’t let myself get too distracted, not at first.
I still had a job to do, and I had to feed. It had been over a month since the last meeting, and while I could go a fair amount of time between feeds, the last one had been minimal. Most of the people had been there either for kicks or because of things that, sadly, I couldn’t fix. I wish I could help all of them and not just because of the rush I get when I take in the suffering, or the peace I find when pain is alleviated.
Suffering, to put it bluntly, sucks.
Tonight, the air was thick with misery, so thick I was choking on it and if I wanted, I could feed until I was drunk from it. It was everywhere, all around me. And … to my surprise, one of those so quietly hurting was the woman who’d entered in silence from the back. One who crackled with the wild energy of somebody who wasn’t entirely mortal.
I blocked her out, again. And focused on a young woman in the front. She was pregnant—and she had cancer.
My heart twisted as I moved closer, my gaze resting on her. She stared at me, her eyes beseeching.
Her friend was glaring at me as she tried to tug her away.
“Come on, Cici,” she said, her voice cutting through the chaos churning inside me. She watched me with disgust.
I slid a look around, studying the faces of the sea of people. In the back, I noticed the blonde woman—the latecomer. Her cat-green eyes held a flicker of distaste.
She glanced at her companion and the two of them shared one of those unspoken conversations. I shifted my attention to him and arched a brow. Oh … helllloooo … pretty, pretty man.
His eyes were narrowed pensively as he took in his surroundings, his gaze never once connecting with mine.
The two of them looked highly out of place, though. They looked … bored.
You won’t be bored much longer.
I smiled at them both.
And then I gazed out over the crowd.
They fell silent.
The time had come, and they knew it.
Looking down, I held out a hand to the expectant mother.
“Cici.”
So goes the life of a faith healer.
She grabbed my hand.
Her friend tried to hold her back.
I looked at her. I didn’t have to extend my mind. “I understand why you doubt me, Cara. You lost your own mother to cancer and both of you prayed for a miracle, every day, didn’t you?”
She went white.
Well, whiter.
Her soft brown eyes now seemed all but black against the pallor of her skin, and her hand fell slackly to her side. Softly, I said, “It’s hard to understand, honey, but sometimes, the answer is just no. That doesn’t mean you should deprive your friend of hope.”
Then I looked back at Cici. “Do you want to try? I make no promises.”
I never did.
But once somebody stepped up on my stage, they left healed.
That’s all there was to it. That’s why I allowed so few to come up.
* * * * *
I was tired.
It had been a busy night.
The pain had rolled rich and ripe through the air and by the time I was done, I was drunk on it.
Saleel had been forced to make me stop. That rarely happened, but sometimes, it all blurred together and I wasn’t able to separate pain from pain—the man with the shattered forearm … yes, he hurt, but if he healed right there in front of everybody, it would be too easy for people to look at me and wonder.
The man with the scars left from a terrible fire in childhood, though? That had been different. I’d learned how deeply such scars could go, and it was more than physical. Because I understood such things, I’d figured out ways to make my healings work. I knew I’d see him one more time. By the time his face was fully healed, I’d be long gone and people would attribute his much-altered face to the “treatments” he’d been using at home.
Doctors wouldn’t be able to explain it, but even now, there was a lot science couldn’t explain, so that didn’t concern me.
Science. I hated that word. Science couldn’t explain me. Science couldn’t explain love or cruelty or hope. Science tried to explain everything and in the end, it rarely explained anything.
Science couldn’t explain why I’d gone to the child, either.
I knew why I’d done it.
I usually didn’t allow myself to go near those I shouldn’t help and she had shouldn’t written all over her frail, dying body.
Saleel had seen me staring at her.
He knows my heart. What else can I say?
She carried far too much pain, that small child, and Saleel and I shared a silent battle of wills. In the end, I fixed the small things that were unseen—the twisting of her gut that would often trouble her and a problem with her kidneys and bladder that likely caused any number of infections. But I could have done nothing about her legs, not unless I wanted everybody to know what I was.
The crowds were getting bigger and bigger with each meeting, drawing more and more of the curious, and more and more of the hopeful.
Of course, th
e two watching me from the back weren’t there because they were hopeful or curious.
As Jody dismissed the crowd, they came forward, moving like people on a mission.
They came prowling toward me like the warriors they were.
It didn’t surprise me, but I wasn’t there for card tricks or to shake hands or answer questions. I disappeared through the curtain, and Saleel, his scarred face set in a grim mask, placed his body between us.
They could have tried to fight their way past.
They could have tried … and it might have been interesting to see how long they lasted.
If it had been anybody but those two, it wouldn’t have been an issue. Saleel would have taken care not to damage them, but there would be little question of who would win.
But these two weren’t a couple of human toughs.
I knew warriors when I saw them, though.
But nothing happened.
Perhaps they were warriors, but they weren’t just muscle.
They were smart.
They saw Saleel, they took him in … and they left.
Just like that.
But I should have known.
A couple of people like them?
They never leave … just like that.
Chapter Two
Still flying high on the pain, gliding sweetly on the euphoria that came from the easing of it, I made it to the simple hotel we had chosen for our time here. We only had a few rules when we hit the road—the primary rule being don’t get noticed.
This hotel was about as bland and boring as one could get.
Requirement number one.
The second requirement was met as well—it was clean.
I didn’t need much. Just peace, quiet … and a bed that didn’t stink of stale sex when I went to lie down. My skin was buzzing by the time I stripped out of my clothes.
Now that I was away from the tent, from the people, from everything, the night played itself over in my head.
The young mother with cancer—it had been vicious, chewing its way through her. She’d be tired for a few days. Then she’d wake, hungry. So hungry. Her body had been forced to split its energy between her sick flesh and her growing child, leaving nothing for her. Soon, she wouldn’t even recognize her old self.
Misery's Way: A Kit Colbana World Story Page 1