The Awakening s-1 Read online

  She exhibited that by guiding his arm through the motions.

  As if the touch of a woman, even a woman of her dubious attributes, threw him off-kilter, he held himself stiff as a board. Gaby released him and took a step back, but she took his knife with her. Examining it, she said, "You should really sharpen this if you expect it to be a threat or protection."

  He shook his head. "I jus' wanna he left Tone."

  Gaby flipped the knife in her hand and presented it back to him with the handle first. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you, though."

  She'd taken two steps when he said, "Uh… thanks."

  She looked over her shoulder, a brow raised.

  "Fer the money."

  But not the lesson on defense? He had his priorities screwed up, but it wasn't her problem.

  With a nod, Gaby took herself off. She had a long walk ahead and no time to chitchat. It was back to business.

  After crossing the street, she entered a gas station that smelled of oil and had seen better days. Off to one side set an old, broken air pump and toward the other, a sign that read RESTROOM.

  Using her foot to open the filthy door, Gaby went inside. Given the unrecognizable splatters on the walls and floors, she had to wonder if hookers used this particular John to fulfill assignations. Flies crowded the room, along with a few spiders.

  Careful not to touch anything, Gaby inched her way to the scum-encrusted sink, barely connected to the wall by exposed pipes. So many chips and cracks marred the porcelain that using it would be hazardous.

  Gaby wrinkled her nose in revulsion and knew she couldn't let it matter. Using a sliver of hair- and dirt-encrusted soap, she washed away all signs of the mutilated man's blood.

  Though it was disgusting, she even splashed her face and rinsed out her mouth. The water tasted as metallic as the blood, but her head knew the difference and she felt better.

  Next, standing on one foot at a time, she removed her flip-flops and cleaned all traces of mud from between her toes, then cleaned off the shoes, too.

  She pulled out her knife and washed it, taking her time, being methodical.

  When she finally left the restroom, thick gray clouds had rolled in to hide the sun.

  Not a storm, she silently prayed.

  Anything but that.

  Luckily, she made it to her building without a single raindrop falling. She was so exhausted that she wanted only to lock herself in her room and pass out on the bed. She did not want to visit with Morty—but with him sitting on the front steps, more or less waiting for her, she couldn't avoid him.

  He jumped to his feet at her approach, and Gaby noticed his red-rimmed eyes, his blotchy cheeks.

  She drew up short. "No fucking way have you been crying."

  Indignant, he shook his head and swiped a forearm past his nose. "No. Course not."

  But she knew he lied. She always knew those sorts of things, even when she'd rather not. Gritting her teeth, she took the most expedient way out of the confrontation.

  "Look, I'm sorry okay? I've been tired lately. Not up to snuff. I don't mean to be a bitch. I just… am."

  His expression softened. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. It's okay."

  Nonplussed, Gaby glared at him. He knew? So he didn't intend to deny her bitchiness?

  "Great," she said, all but grinding out the word. "Then if that's settled…"

  He shifted, effectively blocking her entrance into the building. Gaby lifted a brow.

  He dared?

  Clearing his throat, Mort said, "That's, tun, not why I was waiting for you."

  "No?"

  He hemmed and hawed around, shuffling his feet.

  "Jesus, Mort, spit it out, will ya? In case you can't tell, I'm beat. I need to get some rest and—"

  "A cop stopped by here, looking for you. A really big cop. Detective Luther Cross, I think was his name. He said he'd come back tonight. I just… I thought you should know."

  Eyes narrowed, mistrust prickling. Gaby moved forward with slow, precise purpose. "What did you tell him, Mort?"

  When Morty flushed, she caught him by his shirtfront and dragged him close.

  "Mort?"

  "Nothing. That is… not much." He groaned as if in pain. "I told him you were a good person, Gaby. I told him you'd never have a run-in with the police. He wouldn't tell me why he wanted to see you, but he asked all kinds of questions, like what you do for a living, where your family lives. Stuff like that."

  How dare he ? "Nosy bastard."

  "Yeah, well… He wanted to know where you were, and Gaby, I'm sorry, but I had no idea what to say."

  Which was exactly why she never told him shit—so he couldn't give anything way. "So you said nothing, right?"

  He shook his head. "He kept staring at me and I'm not a good liar. I had to say something, so I figured it'd be better to just admit that you keep to yourself, and that I don't know that much about you."

  She nodded.

  "He asked me how long you'd been my tenant, and when I told him, I don't think he believed me." Nervousness flushed Mort's cheeks. "He kept asking me if we ever talk, if we have any casual conversations… all kinds of stuff like that."

  "Screw him." Gaby released Mort, even smoothed down his wrinkled shirt. "Who cares what he believes?"

  "Uh… I thought you might."

  Weary to the bone, she shook her head. "I need to shower. And sleep. If the cop shows back up, tell him to go away."

  That instruction left Mort wide-eyed with incredulity. "But what he's a cop! What if he insists…"

  "He can't insist without a warrant, so unless he has one, don't bother me."

  Hands twisted together, Mort asked, "And if he does?"

  Gaby sighed. "You know where to find me."

  "He, uh, he seemed like a nice guy."

  "Yeah, right." Big and good-looking, and so full of himself. And he had that gentle, superior aura floating around him. Gaby snorted. "He's a regular superhero."

  "You say that like you don't believe in heroes."

  Mort sounded so wounded that Gaby blinked at him. "What? And you do?"

  "Well… yeah."

  "You've been reading too many graphic novels." He'd been reading too much of her work. "Granted, there's a few fools left out there who hope to save the world. But they're wasting their time."

  Morty went soft. "Gaby, don't say that."

  "It's a lost cause, Mort. Trust me." She had the emotional scars to prove it. "The world is not a comic book, and Superman isn't going to fly in and save a damned thing."

  "Gaby?" Confusion filled his tone and marred his expression.

  She felt like she'd kicked a puppy. What did it matter if Mort had his illusions? For most people, that's what got them through the day.

  "Forget I said anything." Pushing past Mort and into the building, she trudged up the steps. Once inside her room, she secured the doors, removed the leather sheath strapped around her waist, and, still wearing the nasty shirt and soiled jeans, stepped into the shower.

  What better way to scrub the grungy clothes clean?

  As the soap and warm water helped wash away the remnants of the woods, Gaby's thought scuttled around at Mach speed.

  What had she felt at the isolation hospital—horrific memories, or current misery? A threat?

  And that damn Mort, looking to her for reassurance, and for so much more. She shied away from that thought, and focused on Detective Luther Cross instead.

  Feeling marginally revitalized, she pictured the cop as she'd last seen him, watching her walk away, and then talking to those bums by the saloon. So he knew where she lived? And he thought he had reason to talk to her?

  That probably should have bothered her more than it did, but so much turmoil twisted through her exhausted mind, grasping one particular worry seemed impossible.

  Maybe he wouldn't come back at all. And maybe, someday, she'd be a normal woman.

  She wouldn't place a bet on either possibility.


  For six straight hours, Gaby gave herself over to sleep. Before lying down, she'd taken every precaution she could to ensure her own safety. She'd never slept through an intrusion, no matter how exhausted she might be. But chance was a commodity she couldn't afford.

  She woke disoriented and dehydrated, and immediately wanted to write.

  That's how it always happened for her. Writing wasn't a hobby or a true occupation. It was a passion. A necessity to her body and organs and soul—like breathing.

  Like killing demons.

  Using vivid descriptions in her novels helped her exorcise them from her mind. The details of her missions for God went into the stories, there for the entire world to see if only people would wake up and acknowledge the truth.

  Gaby guzzled water until her head cleared, then dressed in another clean top and jeans. Her wardrobe consisted of dark tunics or T-shirts, well-worn denim, and simple flip-flops. In winter, she alternated with oversized hooded sweatshirts and black sneakers.

  The lack of variable attire was a deliberate choice on her part. If anyone ever claimed to see her in the area of a murder and tried to identify her by what she wore that night, it'd prove nothing. She always wore the same. Their memory could be of a Tuesday or Friday, the deli or the gas station.

  Wind whistled outside her windows, a clue about weather to come, but for once Gaby barely heard it. She unfolded the metal stool and seated herself at her desk. From a nearby bin, she retrieved her latest manuscript, her inks, markers, straight-line tools, and fresh paper.

  In no time, she'd immersed herself in the novel, sketching with a frenzy and writing out the truth as she knew it. Her peripheral vision constricted as she placed the day's details into still frames and rich dialogue that would complete her latest work.

  Writing and illustrating graphic novels gave her the satisfaction of showcasing talents that didn't involve real death and destruction. She had a way with words, with the depiction of details that critics said brought readers into the moment.

  Her drawings were vivid and explicit, showing the pain, the conflict, and the inner struggle of right and wrong.

  No one gave her direct credit for her storytelling abilities because she remained anonymous. But she had the pleasure of seeing Morty's face light up when he got the newest loose-leaf manuscript. He'd spend the day devouring her work, and then he'd gush to her about the story, all but swooning in his excitement.

  He didn't know Gaby was the creator, and he had no conception how his appreciation pleased her.

  Devout fans flocked to his comic store in search of the next episode. Hordes of Goth kids checked in regularly, hoping to find a release date, putting their orders on hold.

  Preppies sneaked in and left with the novel in a plain paper bag. College kids shouted out their victory when they got their copies.

  All in all, her stories were well loved.

  Most graphic novels included credits not only for the writer, but also for a penciler who sketched the artwork, an inker who inked the sketches, and a colorist to add the color. Gaby did it all herself, pouring her bitter heart and tortured soul onto the page and into the illustrations.

  Depending on her mood and her most recent destruction, most of her stories ranged anywhere from fifty pages to more than three hundred. This one would be long. After the day's events, which she felt compelled to include, it'd probably run three-fifty.

  Writers usually dealt with an editor and traditional publisher. Not Gaby. When she finished a graphic novel, she mailed the manuscript to Morty under a fictitious name. He sent whatever payment amount she named to a P.O. box outside their city.

  The rest was up to him, and thanks to Mort, she had an enthusiastic underground publisher who didn't mind the X-rated, violent quality of her life.

  Mort had been approached by bigger publishers, but as per her instructions, he kept to the lesser known, underground circulation. The fewer people who got curious about Gaby, the better her odds of not being exposed.

  She didn't want her natural and very cathartic outlet ruined by misguided fame. She saw the world through images, through the most basic truths, and with single-minded ferocity she put that on paper, sometimes working through the night.

  Like an inside joke, or maybe a whimsical prayer, she wrote her character as an avenging angel rather than an iconic freak. Even with blood under her nails and brain matter splattered into her hair, Gaby's illustrated character remained a bright vision.

  Like the rest of the normal world. Gaby romanticized the ugliness; she romanticized herself, and it made it easier for her to stomach her duties.

  But as always, even in this, she remained alone.

  Chapter Five

  Hours later, after darkness had fallen, Gaby scripted an ornate The End onto the page. Only one lamp, aimed at her desktop, lit the room. Shadows crawled and shifted around her, over the floor and up the wall. Wind pushed against the loose windowpanes.

  Leaning back on her stool, Gaby studied the images of Detective Luther Cross. Somehow, they had encroached into her story.

  Disgusted with herself, she closed her eyes and released a humid, pent-up breath. She hadn't planned to write in Cross. It had just sort of happened. In her memories, in the phenomenon of her anguished life, he was there, now a part of it all.

  She'd drawn him larger than life, big and hulking with a firm but gentle hand, and kind but perceptive eyes. He looked like a pure angel, ready to stand beside her…

  Jesus.

  She had to stay away from him. She hated to contemplate new change, but maybe it was time to move on. She need to be well out of Cross's realm.

  Too antsy to stay still, and dying for something to eat, Gaby stacked the pages all together and secured them in a large padded envelope. She'd mail them first thing in the morning, as long as no other summons came.

  Sliding her feet into her flip-flops, she checked the clock, saw it was nearing ten, and headed out. Even from the stairs, she could see a light shining from beneath Morty's door. She didn't want a repeat of their earlier awkwardness, so she crept past, using an inborn stealth that came in handy even when she didn't need to kill someone.

  Oppressive air washed over her skin as she stepped out into the sultry night. Keeping her head down, Gaby ignored her surroundings and made her way to a joint that served what she liked to think of as real food. No preformed burgers or frozen salads. Chuck's Grill dished up chili or soup, subs or sandwiches, or a hearty breakfast—made fresh each day. At Chuck's she didn't have to worry about eating a random cockroach or catching a nasty disease from the filth.

  This time of night, only his outside window remained open for service. Gaby stepped up and tapped on the glass. The youthful worker glanced up, nodded to acknowledge her, and indicated he'd be right with her.

  In no hurry, Gaby tucked her hands into her pockets and lounged back on the stone face of the restaurant. Colored strobe lights from a nearby bar blinked and hiccupped, sending random, diffused light around the area. Vehicles passed, their tires hissing on the steamy pavement. An unsettled, angry breeze continued to stir the night air.

  To Gaby's right, a couple of sleazy hookers touted their wares with halfhearted enthusiasm. To her left, a group of knuckleheaded kids with absurdly colored hair and more piercings than she could count tried to act tough. She doubted they fooled anyone but themselves.

  On the opposite side of the street, a blue car eased up to the curb and a gangly young man, so dark that he blended in with the night, emerged from a shadowed doorway to make a drug deal. The whores called out to the driver, trying to entice him over to them. The dealer shook a mean fist toward them, making a valid threat in the coarsest terms. The punkers cracked up, laughing too loud and too long.

  This was her life, each thing familiar and mundane and easy to ignore. She blended in here.

  "What can I getcha?"

  Gaby turned. The waiter looked nice enough, if a little worn down. "BLT, heavy on the B. A few pickle spears and chi
ps on the side. And a Coke."

  "Got it. Be about five minutes."

  "Thanks."

  He had no sooner shut the window than a deep belch of thunder rambled through the night sky. Gaby shivered with dread. Maybe it was a remnant from the way her mother died that made her dread storms so much.

  Whatever the cause, she detested them, not that she ever expected to admit it to anyone.

  Since no one else even bothered to look up at the black, starless sky, she couldn't very well cancel her order and scurry home in a frightened rush. Besides, she was depleted and needed food. She had to—

  Her reasoning failed when lightning slashed through the atmosphere, raising the fine hairs on her nape. Through sheer reaction, Gaby flattened herself to the wall. When the accompanying thunder crashed, louder this time, her heart tried to punch out of her chest.

  "That'll be eight forty-eight," the worker said, and Gaby nearly jumped out of her skin.

  Her face might've been blue from holding her breath when she turned to him, because he tilted his head and asked, "You okay?"

  Even though prayers seldom gave the answers she wanted, they tripped through her mind. "Yeah," She took one breath, forced the scowl off her face. "I'm dandy." She pushed a ten through the window. "Keep the change."

  "Hey, thanks." He handed over a white bag and a Coke. "Looks like rain, huh?"

  With her thoughts on avoiding that rain, she didn't bother to answer him. She couldn't get out of there quick enough. Driven by hunger. Gaby unwrapped the sandwich and took a huge bite. Holding the bag of chips under one arm, she popped the tab on the Coke. It wasn't fun, but she intended to scarf her food as she made haste right back the way she'd come.

  With her concentration on the impending storm, she almost missed the burn of intense scrutiny. But once she felt it, it sank into her bones, assuring her that someone had her in his sights.

  Slowing her pace, Gaby mentally sought out the direction of her stalker.

  A car pulled alongside her. Gaby glanced at the driver, but dismissed him. He wasn't a threat. Shoving another big bite in her mouth, she surreptitiously took note of her surroundings, studying everything and everyone to her left and right in quick but thorough glimpses.