The Awakening Page 2

  Her cheap rubber flip-flops slapped the scarred wooden floor as she crossed the hall and took the coffee. The hem of her loose-fitting jeans kicked up dust motes, sending them afloat in the gray, stagnant air. And still, Morty watched her with transparent idolatry.

  After a deep drink that burned her throat and felt like heaven as it hit her empty stomach, Gaby followed Mort into his rooms.

  She’d met Morty Vance three years ago after a particularly grueling destruction had left her too exposed to stay in her past residence. Thanks to Morty and his comic book store, she had a job to support herself while fulfilling her duty.

  She lived too wired, and a lot too cautious, to tolerate nosy neighbors. The room above Morty’s apartment suited her, and having the connecting comic book store next door proved convenient. No one, not even Morty, knew what she did to support herself, or about her calling. But Morty had seen her going up the stairs covered in sweat, sometimes spattered with blood, often bruised and worse.

  As per their initial agreement before she rented from him, and despite his personal interest, Mort respected her privacy.

  Whenever he’d come upon her in those situations, he’d offered assistance that she had to refuse. He’d offered protection, which she knew he couldn’t give.

  He offered…friendship.

  And damn it, she’d never had a friend. So, just as she couldn’t deny the calling, she couldn’t quite deny pathetic Morty Vance.

  He was such a dumb-ass loser creep.

  Just what she deserved.

  His pale blue eyes all but absorbed her. “You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  She’d never thought in terms of meals because her life had never been routine. She slept when she could. Ate when she remembered. Fought when called upon. Destroyed as instructed.

  And when time allowed, she drew and narrated her graphic novels.

  The comics had gained instant popularity with the underground community. Gaby kept them out of the hands of reputable publishers. They were too gory, too bloody.

  And too damn real.

  The last thing she needed was someone putting two and two together, and equaling her involvement.

  Saying nothing, Gaby allowed Morty to lead her into his kitchen. At the chipped Formica table, she turned a chair around and straddled it. Watching Morty dish up eggs and sizzling sausage, she took another long draw of the coffee. God, the food smelled good.

  Like a kitchen should.

  Wishing she remembered how to smile, Gaby studied Mort’s stringy brown hair, the amateur tattoo on his scrawny white shoulder, the paunch that protruded over the waistband of his pants. At twenty-six, a few years older than her, Morty should have been out dating and having the time of his life.

  Instead, he lived in his stupid comics, believing in superheroes and the theory that good could triumph over evil.

  No one ever triumphed over evil because evil never ended. It was inestimable, coming and going with no predictability, a relentless, driving influence with forces too intimidating to conceive or even consider.

  Disgusted with herself, Gaby set the mug aside and crossed her arms over the chair back. “How come you don’t date, Mort?”

  With his aura shifting and undulating, he glanced up and away. His unshaven chin, patchy in the way of a sixteen-year-old, quivered. “No time. Besides, most girls are bitches.”

  Or stupid. Or naïve. Just like most men.

  “So?” Gaby tracked Mort’s progress across the floor while he set the table and brought out condiments. Not one for tact, she said, “You could clean up. Get rid of the baggy clothes and nasty hair and—”

  “Dig in.” He dropped into his own seat and scooped up a large bite of egg. “I threw in some special seasonings. See what you think.”

  At his expectant look, Gaby turned in her chair, ate several bites, and shrugged. “It’s edible.”

  She’d almost finished the meal when Mort visibly worked up his nerve. “You never date, either.”

  “No.” She spent all her time surviving.

  Hesitation throbbed in the air before he asked, “Why?”

  “It’d be pointless for me to date.”

  His expression lifted. “Really? Why?”

  Swallowing down the last bite, Gaby shoved back the plate. “I’m…asexual. Uninterested and uninteresting and I sure as hell don’t have time for stupid questions today.” Or any other day. She pushed her chair away from the table and stood.

  “Where are you rushing off to?”

  Because he’d never before asked, Gaby stalled. Good God, had turning twenty-one made some miraculous change in her demeanor, somehow led him to believe he could grill her?

  Encouraging more than a quick meal could be disastrous—for him. He wouldn’t understand. Hell, he wouldn’t even believe her. Best to set him straight right off, though she hated to hurt him. He’d had enough hurt in his miserable little life.

  Taking one big step, Gaby towered over Mort, holding him in her unflinching gaze until he shifted in discomfort and a touch of fear, pressed back in his chair as if it might absorb him. “Mind your own business, Mort.”

  Embarrassment and worry flushed his face. Awkwardly, cautiously, he eased his chair from the table and rose to his feet. “I don’t mean to pry.”

  The colors encircling him faded to soft pink and lilac, indicating his compassion…for her?

  Fuck that.

  Gaby turned and strode away. She didn’t need the likes of Mort Vance. She was Gabrielle Cody, God’s tool on earth, the hammer that smashed savage monsters without regret, without—

  Mort rushed after her. “Gabrielle, I’m sorry. Please. Please, don’t go mad.”

  God, he was so fucking wretched. So alone and weird, and…sad. Some lost kernel of sympathy wormed its way into Gaby’s cold, blackened heart. At the apartment door, she turned. “I told you from jump that I don’t like questions.”

  His hands twisted together. “I just…sometimes I worry about you.”

  Oh hell no. Her feral growl had him backing up a step. “Tell me that’s a joke.”

  He swallowed. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  Then he should damn well keep his eyes closed around her because even now the pain boiled inside her, leaving her flesh raw, her insides tortured.

  “Fine.” She leaned toward him and color leached from his face. “Then quit grilling me, because your nosiness is a real pain in my ass.”

  He jerked back as if slapped, and Gaby went out without another word. Just as she stepped outside, she heard his door close with a near-silent click.

  Had she hurt his feelings?

  For a single moment, a niggling of guilt squirmed through her. But she had serious work to do with no time for distractions. Forcing Mort from her mind, she went down the three painted concrete steps to the street.

  The moment her feet made contact with the blacktop, heat shimmered up her body to cling to her skin without penetrating. Temperatures, both sweltering and frosty, affected her differently than they did normal people. When she had a job to do, she remained impervious.

  Cold didn’t make her shiver.

  Heat didn’t deplete her strength.

  Her entire being focused on what had to be done, with no room left to consider mundane attributes like the weather.

  Already sinking into the zone, Gaby slipped on reflective sunglasses and scanned the area, seeking out the trigger. She wouldn’t need her car today. How she knew that, she couldn’t explain. She just knew it’d be better not to have it. The old white and rust Ford Falcon wasn’t that reliable anyway, whereas her feet had seldom let her down.

  Pain pulsed through her veins, driving her forward. As a child, she’d fought the bone-grinding agony, thinking it physical. She used to curl up in her bed and sob, trying to comprehend the inexplicable. She’d been too young to understand the magnetism of what she had to do to make the hurt go away.

  When doctors could find nothing wrong with
her, the wards had grown disgusted. They showed her no sympathy, and even punished her for refusing to leave the bed. They doubled her chores, hoping to reprimand her out of her hypochondria. She’d grown strong, physically and mentally. She’d isolated herself from others.

  But the pain had continued to plague her.

  As a teen, she’d met Father Mullond, and from the start he took acute interest in her, as if through her appearance alone, he could see the difference in her. There’d been no one else in her miserable life, only foster homes and dispassionate strangers, so to her, Father became her family: brother, parent, uncle, confidant—he filled every role.

  He cared about her.

  And he understood her.

  Oh sure, some might call what he’d done unethical. The church definitely wouldn’t have approved. But like her, Father had accepted that certain things were out of God’s hands. He would smile and say that God had singled her out, recognizing her as a paladin. He made it sound almost…special.

  He made her sound special, instead of freakish.

  Through guidance and care, he’d taught her to cope. To this day, Gaby could still hear his voice coming to her in the darkest moments of her life. “Smile, Gabrielle. He has named you a paragon of chivalry. A heroic champion. It’s a gift that comes with great responsibility. You and you alone have the ability to protect the innocent.”

  Not all innocents, Gaby thought, reminded of those she didn’t save. She did what she could, but it was never enough. A hundred paladins wouldn’t be enough. But at least she’d had Father on her side.

  To reinforce that her ability was right and good, he’d taken the confessions of sinners too evil to inhabit the earth. Together they’d waged a war, and in the process Gaby had learned how to sharpen her skill, to understand the summons, to follow an urge to the rightful conclusion.

  She wouldn’t die. God wouldn’t let her, even during the lowest points of her life when she’d pleaded for death.

  The same couldn’t be said for Father.

  Long before she’d been ready to face the world on her own, he’d been taken from her. Not by the evil so many feared, but a disease just as heinous: cancer.

  Never again would she open herself to that depth of emotional devastation. Fighting a league of demons alone was much, much easier than losing a beloved friend.

  Drawn into herself, concentrating fiercely on the mental trail, Gaby had traveled nearly two blocks when a wolf whistle split the air, startling her out of the disturbing memories.

  Without noticing, she’d come alongside the local bar overflowing with idiots who never went home, or didn’t have homes to go to. Given the slums she lived in, lewd comments and sexual harassment were as common as the decayed-brick scenery.

  A muddy brown aura hung in the air, indicating that evil lurked here, preying on the despondent, the emotionally weak. Pausing by a lamppost, Gaby surveyed the area with a dispassionate eye. Leering men pushed away from the doorway to encircle her.

  One by one, Gaby looked at the drunks—and dismissed the taint of their influence. Most of their destruction would be wreaked inwardly, on their own persons.

  Stupid bastards.

  She would have walked away. Unfortunately, for them, they didn’t allow her to do that.

  Well hell. It needed only this.

  Chapter 2

  Gaby braced herself.

  “Don’t go jumpin’ out of your skin, baby girl,” said one man as he closed the distance to her. “I jus’ wanna get to know ya.”

  From right behind her, another said, “Damn, you’re a tall drink. Ain’t never seen a bitch so tall.”

  “Who gives a fuck if she’s a giant? She smells clean.” A misshapen nose sniffed the air around her.

  Childish name-calling could neither distract nor insult her. She had too much to do.

  Gaby started to step around the men. One brazenly blocked her way. “You might be tall, but you ain’t got much in the way of tits, now do you?”

  A lot of knee-slapping and roaring good humor followed that gibe.

  Gaby said, “Drop dead,” and shoved past him. But she’d taken only two steps when she got worried. She glanced at the vast sky and whispered, “Just kidding, okay?” She didn’t really want some sad sap dead on her account—not that God listened to her all that often. But just in case…

  A hand circled her upper arm, drawing her to a stop.

  Shit. She did not have time for this.

  “Uppity bitch,” the drunk complained. “Why’re you in such a hurry?”

  The other losers snickered, egging him on.

  Gaby didn’t want to hurt anyone—not yet anyway. In her current mood, her control would be iffy at best. If she let go, she might kill the miserable fool by mistake. No loss to humanity, but her conscience could only take so much baggage.

  In motions slow and precise, she pivoted to face him. Even slouched with drink, he stood tall enough to meet her eye to eye. Jesus, he smelled like ass and looked like death.

  She slipped off her sunglasses to give him the full brunt of her discontent.

  A spasm of surprise slackened his mouth, and the damp fingers clutching her arm flinched, then tightened with obvious dread.

  Yeah, when in the zone, she had that effect on people. She didn’t know why—maybe she appeared more menacing, or her determination became tactile. Whatever, most people in their right minds got out of her way.

  This guy didn’t, which only proved that too much drink had addled his common sense. More out of shock than deliberate intent, he hung on to her.

  The stench of sweat, combined with the oily, alcohol residue of his skin and breath, sent a lurch through Gaby’s stomach. She had to force herself to continue looking at him, to open her mind to him.

  An atmosphere of depression and desolation heaved around him. Disturbed, yes, but not demonic. Definitely not the one who had gotten her out of bed.

  When she didn’t react, he shored up his nerve and reached for her rear, filling his hand with one cheek. At least he hadn’t touched the small of her back and discovered her knife. Gaby considered that far more serious than a little grab-ass.

  Laughing like hyenas, his friends shouted encouragement and suggestions.

  Emboldened, he squeezed and cuddled her, saying, “A tight ass, too.” His mean smile showed discolored teeth. “But I don’t mind much.”

  She didn’t move away as he’d probably expected her to. She didn’t cower, or tremble. Her rage built in tandem to his nervousness. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and tracked a slow path down his temples; his hand stilled. Even the slowest of minds felt the power within her when she had the call.

  Gaby was already in motion when he let go and started to back up, too late to avoid her attack. She smashed her bony knee into his jewels. Face contorting on a soundless wail, he collapsed forward, and she struck his nose with the heel of her palm, finishing him off.

  His friends scattered as he sank backward, wheezed once for breath, and keeled over. His head clunked hard on the concrete walkway. Lucky for him, he had enough alcohol in his system that he didn’t get back up. If he had, she’d have done more damage to him.

  Dangerously on edge, Gaby lifted her penetrating gaze to the onlookers. No longer could she see them clearly, only the haze of their nervousness, the blistering of their fear.

  Knowing she’d wasted too much time, Gaby sucked in a slow, calming breath, turned to leave—and ran face first into a hard chest. Acting on instincts, she struck out, left hand, right elbow, fast and hard. Swifter movements blocked each blow before large hands curved over her upper arms, alarming her.

  But these hands weren’t damp or cruel. They definitely weren’t weak.

  Holding her secure, keeping her upright, they burned through the fog of her purpose.

  An atavistic montage of alarms scuttled throughout Gaby’s system, not unlike what she experienced when receiving her call of duty. Only…

  Only the acute pain lessened.

&
nbsp; And that couldn’t be good. She needed the pain to keep her focused, to keep her instincts sparking.

  Wary over what she might see, Gaby took the time to gain her breath, to clear her head. Once she had her rage tempered, she looked up by small degrees, taking in a trim waist belted by black leather, buttons of a pressed white dress shirt, the loosened, burgundy-printed tie, a tanned throat, a strong chin.

  Filled with trepidation, she raised her gaze to a face—and fell into calculating chocolate eyes that contrasted sharply with fair hair and a frown that bespoke concern rather than anger.

  Jesus, he stood taller by a good three inches.

  Beneath the nice suit, broad shoulders gave testament to incredible power. And he smelled of goodness, an unfamiliar, drugging scent.

  Whorls of soft yellow, pink, and orange framed him with the same serenity as a sunset. The colors showed optimism, strength, purpose, and compassion. She didn’t dare acknowledge the way her knees weakened and her stomach bottomed out.

  Tugging her closer, keeping her on her tiptoes, he asked, “Are you all right?”

  That deep, resonating, and somehow alarming voice caused Gaby to shrink back. But he didn’t let her go far.

  This man would be much more trouble than the drunks, mostly because he affected her in some odd, freakish way. Rage she understood. Fear, deliberation, disgust. All the garden-variety emotions.

  What she felt now, with him, was something faster, almost raw, definitely urgent and disorderly.

  Infused with an inclination she didn’t understand, Gaby reacted instinctively, again jerking her knee up with precise aim.

  He shifted, and rather than meet her target, she thumped against a muscled thigh. He winced, but didn’t release her. “Calm down,” he told her, as if she hadn’t just come close to unmanning him.

  Wow. Amazing control.

  Amazing reflexes.

  And an incredible poker face.

  He’d moved so fast, she hadn’t had a chance to counter it—something that had never happened to her before. The success of her talent depended on her skill. She had to be better than everyone else, faster and stronger and more intuitive…or innocent people would be consumed by savagery.