The Awakening

Chapter One

"Be very, very still now. Don't move."

Gray eyes, faded from years of living, cloudy with dementia, gave only a blank stare.

So amusing, the lack of mental acuity. "Yes, I know you hear me, even if you do look hollow and empty. But I suppose it's okay that you don't understand everything happening. Better, even." Humor tilted the corners of the physician's mouth. "It makes my job that much easier."

The personality of this human shell was long gone, eaten away by neglect, age, and disease. There could be no soul, not in something so pathetic and uncomprehending. Now the frail, emancipated body would serve a higher calling. Science would benefit. The extent of possibilities learned had no boundaries.

Exciting, that's what it was. Challenging and, though some would never admit it, honorable.

The overhead light glinted on the heavy-duty steel wire snips. Proper surgical tools would be better, but they were costly and not easy to steal. The fewer chances taken, the better.

For the sake of science, a carpenter's tools would have to do.

Carefully, the physician guided one gangling finger into the jaws of the snips. Not too far, just deep enough to remove the very tip.

The fingerprint.

Evidence of any life. Of any background.

Such precautions were necessary in the event the discarded bodies, the ones that couldn't hold up under the trials, were ever found. There could be no evidence to trace, no way to be implicated.

Ready.

One breath. Two. Squeeze.

Brittle bone crunched, severed, between the razor-sharp blades; shock stilled the subject, and a second later, a tearing, agonizing scream bounded around the cavernous room, stirring the others to rail and groan in helpless fear.

Disturbed by the ballyhoo, the doctor glanced around at each of them. They might be incoherent and utterly useless to functioning society, but they still perceived the trials awaiting them.

Fortunately, they'd come to this remote location drugged almost comatose, and before the hallucinogens and painkillers wore off, they'd been strapped down securely with crude, makeshift restraints.

Those same straps kept this body still, and no one was around to hear the eerie wails of agony. No one who mattered.

The next finger found the same fate.

Warm blood pooled onto the rickety table and stained the rough linens. Sterilized stitching took place between every two or three removals. Boring, tedious work, but necessary to stop the blood flow and assist in healing.

Effective experimentation could not be done on a dead body.

"Now." Smiling, the doctor looked down to find the body unnaturally still. Pain had carried the patient to the oblivion of unconsciousness. Annoyance replaced the amusement; every great doctor appreciated an attentive audience to witness strokes of brilliance.

But perhaps it was better this way. There'd be no more need for small talk. No need to soothe.

On to business.

The right hand still waited.

The crimson sunrise spilled into the cramped but tidy room, bringing with it the monotony of responsibility and the taint of rancid malevolence. Funny, how people always assumed evil lurked in the shadowy night, that it wore a face of frightening proportions, that it could—in any way—be predictable.

With the nine-millimeter resting in her hand, her finger curved around the trigger, Gabrielle Cody lay unmoving. The knife strapped to her back dug into her spine with reassuring familiarity. Even in sleep, her muscles stayed taut, her body prepared.

Today, her twenty-first birthday, dawned no different from any other. Had she really hoped to have a respite from the grueling duty?

The sounds of birds awakening, cars driving by, and the relentless, rhythmic beating of her heart swarmed her mind. She wished she could deny the morning. She wished she could be reborn as someone else, someone… normal.

But no matter how Gabrielle strained and resisted, she couldn't deny the pull. With each second that ticked past, the clawing from within swelled, screaming louder inside her head, making her guts churn and her blood rush hot until the walls of her chest burned like fire. With a tearing groan and a stiffening of her legs, she narrowed her eyes and did her best to focus on the cracked and stained ceiling.

Leave me alone.

The silent command resonated within her head, just like the inexorable draw that refused to be ignored.

Battling it brought a light sweat to her skin, leaving her naked body slick. Her breath soughed in and out. The lumpy mattress took on the appeal of hard gravel, urging her to start the day.

Resistance was futile.

"Fuck it." Gabrielle thrust herself off the bed in a rush of acceptance. Her bare feet padded in hollow silence across the floor to the open window, where she stared at the hazy sunrise swimming on the horizon. The mid-June day would torture with heat and humidity—perfect for her birthday.

As long as it didn't storm, she could function. But if black clouds moved in and the thunder began to belch and bluster… Just thinking of it made her palms damp and her throat tight. Shit. She might as well fear the dark or the occasional spider while she was at it.

She snorted, scrubbed at her tired eyes, and surveyed everything within her range of sight.

As usual, her attention landed on the playground first, surrounded by a sturdy chain-link fence that couldn't stop a damn thing and would offer no protection from the real threats. By midmorning, laughing, innocent children would be at play with an excess of noise and excitement.

The now-abandoned elementary school drew her notice next. Once, long ago, it taught dreams and encouraged illusions. They'd put up the fence to keep the kids in, ignorant and oblivious to the true dangers lurking beneath a veneer of social acceptability.

All along the road, traffic multiplied in a scorched wave of colors and sounds and exhaust fumes. It hadn't rained in weeks and brittle tree leaves rustled under the encouragement of a hot, restless breeze.

Gaby drew a breath—and held it.

Somewhere out there, somewhere that no one could see or suspect, horrible things waited, taunting her senses, painfully pricking her nerves, making her vision slide within. She knew it. She always knew it.

She fucking hated it.

Wrenching away from the window, she unbuckled the knife strap from around her waist and carried it, with the heavy gun, into the bathroom. In her efficiency apartment, it was the only closed room. A single large room housed everything else: her bed, her hot plate, an old rickety desk and a minuscule dresser, a microwave and small refrigerator.

After setting the weapons aside, she double-bolted the special door she'd installed for her peace of mind, and then turned on the shower. The original door and flimsy lock hadn't taken much more than a single punch before giving way. Now, when the rush of water impaired her perceptions, it'd require a talented locksmith or a true behemoth to break in.

Whenever circumstances like sleeping or bathing left her vulnerable, Gaby did all she could to protect herself. The shower, with its old rattling pipes, made more noise than most. At times, it sounded like the demons from hell were trying to crawl through the walls.

Some would call her specialized precautions paranoid.

But then, most had no idea that crazed demons did crawl the earth.

Death didn't frighten her. No, there were times when Gaby prayed for death to take her.

Those prayers went unanswered.

What she didn't want, what she couldn't bear to contemplate, was unending torment. She could handle pain; she always had. But if the pain had no end…

Locking her teeth, Gaby stepped under the tepid spray and let the water hit her face, trickle down her body. It didn't dispel the truth of what she had to do, what she put off doing. It didn't ease her muscles or alleviate the agony that became a part of her, more so with every passing moment.

It only removed the sweat and took the sting out of her eyes.

Lingering in the shower, she cleaned her teeth while straining her ears to hear any sound of intrusion. Ten minutes later, clean and dry, she combed back her short dark hair and dressed in a way that wouldn't draw attention. Birthday or not, she could no longer deny her God-appointed duty.

Closing her eyes and relaxing her mind allowed her to drop her resistance, leaving her open to the summons.

Like the spike of a frozen ice pick, it struck her nape, then slowly, raggedly, scraped down her spine and straight into her soul.

Her muscles jerked and twitched, and her mouth opened on a gasp as the pain dug deep, expanding to invade her every nerve ending. She didn't shy away from the agony; she knew it would do no good. As an incentive, the physical misery would remain until she finished the job.

In her practiced way, Gaby evened her breathing, accepting, embracing the pain so it could revitalize her, heightening her awareness and honing her instincts to razor sharpness.

Today someone—some thing—would die.

She knew, because she'd kill it.

But not with the gun. Gun blasts made too much noise and drew too much attention. What Gaby had to do, no one would understand.

So no one could know.

She locked the weapon away in a special box that fit into her bedsprings. Eventually, someone would invade this sanctum, and then she'd have to move on. Until then, she did everything in her power to appear as a normal being.

Mustering a pretense of indifference, harboring her knife beneath her loose dark T-shirt and frayed jeans, Gaby left her apartment and went down the long, dark, narrow stairwell. Her footfalls caused a hollow echo in the dilapidated building while her mind moved ahead to her duties, where she'd start and how she'd finish.

Before she could leave the aged brick building, Morty Vance, her landlord and the owner of a kitschy comic book store next door, stepped out of his apartment.

"Gaby."

Urgency sizzled and snapped, but she kept her voice even, her facade one of normalcy, when normalcy remained so far out of her reach.

"Mort." It wasn't easy, but she somehow managed to lighten the intensity of her scowl. Mort wasn't a bad guy. The gray aura of difficulty and depression clung to him, but there were no reds or browns to indicate the presence of evil. "I was just—"

"Going to join me for breakfast." Knowing her weaknesses, he held a chipped ceramic mug filled with fragrant, steaming coffee toward her nose. "Scrambled eggs are fresh off the stove. Come in and eat."

Food. At his mention, her stomach rumbled in hollow need. How the hell did she constantly forget food? Father Mullond, rest his soul, had chastised her again and again for not refueling.

Thanks to her less-than-healthy eating habits, she weighed only one-twenty, which looked odd considering she stood six feet tall. But that sometimes worked to her advantage. Despite the lankiness of her limbs, omnipotent strength surged through her. Along with fluid muscles, she possessed awesome speed and deadly accuracy.

The devil's tools, but a gift from God.

Or so Father Mullond insisted.

Gaby had few female curves to get in the way of her duty. In no way, shape or form could she ever be labeled as a typical woman. Hell, she barely passed as typically human.

Morty, the dumbshit, didn't seem to notice or care.

Gaby wasn't psychic, not in the entertainment-perfect, romantic way average people liked to perceive special abilities. Her talent, as Father Mullond had dared to call it, proved more basic than that. She knew jack about summoning past lives or interpreting the musings of ghosts or whatever other melodrama supposed-psychics dished out.

She perceived the intention of the mentally sick, the innately wicked, the crazed fiends that scuttled over the surface of the earth, pretending to be like everyone else, fooling most, but not her.

When instructed, she took care of them.

Morty wasn't evil, so she didn't bother dwelling on him. But she'd have to be a real dope to be oblivious to his infatuation.

Sick bastard.

What did she have to draw male attention? Not a damn thing, which, she supposed, proved Mort's desperation for female company. Or maybe any company.

She glanced at the mug, at his pathetically hopeful grin, and gave up with a shrug. "Yeah, sure. Why not?"

Fueling her body made her stronger, so it'd be easier to carry on. Each summons left her so depleted, so weak and vulnerable, just surviving became a chore. A little nourishment first wouldn't hurt.

Besides, she had some time before anything major happened. It meant she'd have to rush to reach her destination, wherever that destination might be, but she'd spent most of her life rushing from one ghastly abomination to another.

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 super-heroes 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 naive. 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.