Rising (2 page)

Tarren and I are both on our feet, clearly
on our way out. We’ll have to pass the angel to get to the door. He’ll notice
me, unless… Tarren comes around the table and stands just behind me. I feel the
dampened throb of his energy and close my eyes for a moment, gathering myself.

“Ready?” he hisses under his breath.

I quickly throw my arms through the
sleeves of my coat, but leave the buttons undone. “Do it,” I say, balling my
hands into fists and plunging them into my coat pockets.

Tarren wraps an arm around my waist and
pulls me into his big body.

Humans can’t see their own auras. Don’t
even know they exist, which means they let their energy run free, always soaked
with the shifting colors of their emotions. Tarren is different. He knows about
the auras – knows that I can read a personal’s entire emotional map in an
instant. Over the last six months, since this whole crazy thing started for me,
he’s become especially adept at holding his emotions at bay, hiding his true
feelings from this second sight of mine.

He can also let them go, which is what
he does now, relaxing his mental grip, allowing his aura to bloom with all his
repressed emotions.

The song.

Not the heavy techno-shit booming out of
the speakers. My hunger is a song that only I can hear; that only I can feel
gripping every neuron in my brain as Tarren’s energy laps over me. His aura cloaks
me from the eyes of the angel, but I pay a high price for our subterfuge.
Control,
control, control,
I chant to myself as my muscles lock and every part of me
wants to pounce on Tarren, hurt Tarren, drain every last drop of energy from
his body.

My brother’s grip is tight around my
waist, and he steers me towards the door.
Forward
,
forward
. We
pass the angel. I’m on Tarren’s right side, away from the angel, hiding in the
shadow of his energy. Just a little longer.
Hold,
I think.
Hold.
Hold. Bold. Sold. Cold.

Door opening. Closing. Grumble from the
smelly bouncer.

We’re out. I rip myself from Tarren’s
arm and stagger forward on wobbly legs. Distance. Need distance. My hands are
pouring heat, probably glowing up a storm, but my brain is worse. The monster
part of me purrs, wanting release.

Tarren gives me my space. His
hyper-vigilance is sometimes mildly threatening and more often just a huge
drag, but it has its uses. He’s really good about knowing what I need to
maintain control.

I take a deep breath of the cold air,
sucking in a myriad of scents dominated by car exhaust and fried food. Then I
look behind me to Tarren. He pulls in his aura, tucking away all those emotions
into the huge vault he keeps inside his heart. Before he gets all of it
completely locked away, I see thick, heavy browns splashed across his aura like
a tumor. I’ve noticed hints of it before – ever since he came home after Gabe
got hurt – but I never realized it was this bad.

Brown for worry, for anxiety.

Tarren worries a lot; about everything,
actually, but this rotting hue is different. This is something big.

“He won’t try anything while he’s in the
club,” Tarren says, all business. “He always follows his victims home.”

“Looks like we’ve got some strippers to
save,” I say lamely, trying to iron out the shakes in my voice. I quickly slip
out of my heels and hook them with my index finger. The cold concrete chills my
feet and sharpens my focus. My muscles unlock with each step forward. Tarren
peels off his beard as we hurry back to the jeep and the sniper rifles in the
trunk.

Experience makes us efficient. While
Tarren raises the back door of the jeep and prepares the rifles, I lie across
the backseat and switch out my jeans for black Lycra pants. The wig comes off,
and by the time Tarren’s ready, I’m lacing up my black boots.

“Three exits,” he says, his words
punctuated with white mist.

“Front, back, and a side door into the
alley,” I answer as I cinch the laces. “Won’t be coming out the front.”

“Unless he follows a patron.”

“Nope, he’ll go after one of the
strippers. That’s his pattern. It’ll be back door,” I challenge him.

“I’ll cover it. You handle the side
door.”

I roll my eyes. Tarren always gives
himself the prime locations, which means he’ll get the kill tonight, just like always.
He still doesn’t trust me, not fully. Sure, at the start of my career shift
into vigilantism I’d had a few performance issues when it came to pulling the
trigger, but that was months ago. Ancient past.

Before I killed Grand.

“Fine,” I say and hold out my hand for
the rifle case. Tarren glances at me, and his aura ticks – barest hint of amber.

Amber is Tarren’s guilt, and doesn’t
that just open so many doors to our relationship. He hands over the case, and
we both study the strip joint. The locale is not very sniper-friendly. Big
weedy patches of grass flank the club on either side. No easy rooftops to set
up shop. I can almost hear the hum of Tarren’s brain calculating.

“Fast food place,” he says to me and
lays his rifle case back in the jeep.

“Seriously?” I gaze at the brightly lit,
boxy building about 300 meters up the road.

“There’s a workable angle,” he says.
“You can get a shot.”

“That’s a pretty sharp angle,” I tell
him. I wrap my arms around my chest to ward off the encroaching cold. January
in Detroit, a traveler’s paradise. “And what about you? There’s nothing in back.”

“I’ll make due,” Tarren says, screwing
our last silencer onto his 10mm Glock. That means he’ll hunker down behind a
truck or SUV in the small back lot and go in for the close kill, which is
pretty risky on a number of levels. Who knows what special ability this set of
wings possesses, or even if Billy Bob or Joe Bob will finish off their night of
high class entertainment only to find a black-clad guy with a gun hunched in
front of their grill? When it comes to angels, distance is our friend. Of course,
Tarren’s in full steel mode and won’t hear any of my pansy arguments about
basic safety. 

“Bluetooth on,” he says.

We stand together a second longer. I
feel like we should have developed some kind of ritual by now, a handshake, a
brave nod, a shoulder clap. This is dangerous work after all.

“Okay,” I mumble, because, well, it’s
just me, and cleverness is a sporadic visitor at best.

With that moment on lameness forever
crystalized in our collective memories, we break away on our separate
assignments. I wait until the street is dead before darting across and making
my way to the burger joint with the creepy clown face on its sign. Despite the late
hour, several grumbling, American-made trucks inch through the drive-thru. Many
look like they’ve seen better days. So do the buildings. So do the people. Seems
like nobody in Detroit has gotten a good break in the last decade.

Keeping to the darkness, I head behind
the building. Odors of grilled meat and fried everything assault my nose. Hard
to believe I used to stuff fries in my mouth with nearly orgasmic pleasure.
Those were back in my normal human days when my stomach wasn’t a shrunken pit
unable to digest anything. Now my meals consist of something entirely
different.

The climb to the roof is no obstacle. My
change didn’t come without some enviable perks. My body is acrobatic, strong,
and quick-healing. I can climb most anything, leap from rooftops or trees with
the ease of Spiderman, and match the stamina of a world-class marathoner. There
are plenty of reasons why so many have clamored to be changed (“infected” is
the word of choice my brothers use), but there’s that one monumentally
inconvenient drawback – the hunger.

As I unzip and set up Gabe’s beloved
Colt CRE-18 rifle, my whole situation slaps me in the face like a wet glove. Just
six months ago this idyllic, rifle assembling scene would have looked like some
sort of crazy nightmare life, and now…now it’s just life. Sometimes my past seems
like a filmy dream; I can hardly believe that I actually went to college, had a
boyfriend, watched cartoons in my PJs on the weekends, and ate solid food like
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (copious amounts of jelly always oozing out
the sides). I have to remind myself that it wasn’t so long ago when I couldn’t
do 100 pull-ups in a row, or see bright auras cascading from every living thing,
or endure the constant song of hunger ringing in my bones.

I shake the thoughts away. I still
experience random whirlwinds of doubt, but these storms come on me less and less
now, and they don’t flatten me like they used to. My old life is fading into fuzzy
gray photographs up until the night an angel named Grand stole me away six
months ago and made me…whatever this hybrid thing is that I am.

I leave the scope in the bag but attach
the tripod to the rifle. Peering over the edge of the roof, I seek out the best
angle that will put the strip club’s side door into my line of sight. I end up mashed
into the corner of the roof, rifle angled downward just a hair. It would be a
difficult shot as is, but then an icy wind starts gusting, bringing small
snowflakes with it.

Joy o’ joys.

“In position,” I whisper through my
Bluetooth.

“Check,” Tarren says on his end.

Then it’s all about waiting and trying
not to freeze to death. Detroit in January is cold. Fucking cold. The wind has
teeth that gnaw through my jacket with ferocity. The worst thing about waiting isn’t
the cold, though. It’s the long, empty stretch of time and my brain trying to
fill it with memories that I’d do anything to squelch or have surgically
removed if possible.

And it comes; the one I can never keep
chained to the dark. In my mind’s eye, I see Gabe on his hands and knees
shivering with pain. Blood-tinged tears drip off his face. The saturated hues
of pain and utter betrayal soak through his aura.

“I’m sorry for you too Maya,” my brother
whispers just before I….

Stop
. With effort, I push the memories away while my breath
swirls white around me.

An hour ticks by. Then another. The cold
eats into my joints. I keep flexing my fingers and toes, trying to ward off
stiffness. I shift my position a little here, a little there to relieve knots
of pressure. I have to pee big time. I try to ignore it, but my bladder feels
like a balloon stretched to its max. I’ve heard you can actually get bladder infections
by holding it too long. I wonder how terrible it would be if I quickly snuck
into the burger place and relieved myself.

Tarren would consider this an
unforgiveable breach of protocol. I guess I could pee on the roof, in one of
the other corners. It’d take my eyes off the strip club alley, but if my
bladder explodes, what use would I be? I’m just about desperate enough to do
it, when the side door of the strip club swings open. My finger curls around
the trigger as I intuitively move the barrel of the rifle.

Ambrosia clomps out wrapped in a long,
ratty coat. She digs through a massive purse and eventually pulls out a pack of
cigarettes. I’m mildly disappointed; both that it’s not our angel and that
Ambrosia’s wasting her hard-earned money – some of it mine – on cancer sticks.

She turns her back to the door, hunching
against the wind. I watch as she blows out a stream of smoke. The sallow colors
of resignation in her aura lighten with relief as she inhales again. The side
door eases open, and a second figure emerges. I expect it to be another stripper,
out to keep Ambrosia company and gossip.

It’s the angel. He moves quietly, and
Ambrosia doesn’t see him.

I can’t imagine that this guy would be
stupid enough to go for her right here in this alley after he’d just been seen
in the club. But his hands glow, and I recognize that glazed expression on his
face all too well.

That’s the thing about the hunger – control
is always an issue. An angel could have the best intentions in mind – like,
say, following a stripper back to her home before draining her – but sometimes,
a lot of times, the hunger just gets the best of you.

Adrenaline jacks through my body. I’m
finally getting the kill. A wave of anger quickly follows this realization. That
fucker is going after
our
stripper!

“Confirm, in the alley,” I whisper into
my Bluetooth. “About to feed. I’m clipping his wings. One witness. Get ready.”

“On my way,” Tarren says.

At least he gives me this. No argument. No
question. It’s a good thing too, because Ambrosia looks over and notices the
man for the first time.

“I don’t do blow jobs or nothing else
off the menu,” she says to him.

That a girl!
I think as I position my shot.

The wind starts up again, and I have to
readjust. My hands are so stiff, and they’re trembling just a little. I can
still make it though. Have to.

Steady, steady, steady, ready, deady,
I think to myself.

The angel takes purposeful steps toward
Ambrosia. She must see the hunger, that murderous intent on his face, because
dark, inky fear clouds out the cigarette’s relief in her aura. She lets out a robust
holler and starts digging in her huge purse. The angel reaches out for her.

I pull the trigger.

The bullet cuts through the distance and
punches into the angel’s head, a little lower than I intended but still a clean
kill. He crumples at Ambrosia’s feet.

Ambrosia, still screaming, yanks something
out of her purse. Mace. After fumbling with the nozzle, she sprays the unmoving
heap of dead in front of her. She keeps on spraying, keeps on screaming until
Tarren makes it to the alley, lines up his shot, and puts a tranq dart in her
neck. Ambrosia, this amazing woman, doesn’t let go of that mace. She keeps
spraying the dead angel even as her scream goes all warbly and her knees
buckle. Tarren, always the hero, catches her and ducks a cloud of mace as she
groggily swings the sputtering canister at him.