The Awakening

Chapter Two

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 to 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.

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 of 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.

Or maybe… he was innocent, so she couldn't hurt him.

That thought left her confounded, and she shied away from it. No one was totally innocent. No one.

Curious, Gaby stared at him. Even with her attack, his gaze didn't falter, his voice didn't change. Other than the slight winging of one dark brow, he showed no reaction at all.

Eyes shining with awareness, he asked, "Is there some reason you're assaulting me?"

She had to get away.

Now.

The longer she stayed near him, the more disconcerted she got, and she never got disconcerted. She couldn't allow old-fashioned jitters to jeopardize what must be done. Enough time had passed to threaten the probability of the outcome.

Letting evil escape was not an option.

If she didn't get her ass in gear, some poor soul would suffer. She'd fail in her duty, and the awful pain would linger and burn until it almost drove her mad.

His knees bent, bringing his face level with hers. "Hey, anyone at home in there?"

Gaby narrowed her eyes, annoyed at his teasing. She'd never known a man to act so weird. She didn't like it. She sure as hell didn't understand it.

Forgoing a verbal reply, she stared down at first his left hand, then his right, both firmly latched onto her arms just above her elbows.

He released her and took a step back.

Without wasting another second, Gaby started around him.

This time he only caught her arm to regain her attention. Full of incredulity and dangerous antagonism, her fist cocked back, Gaby whirled to confront him. He dropped his hand. Again.

"I'm a cop." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a black wallet and flipped open a badge. "Detective Cross." He offered an encouraging smile. "Luther Cross."

The air squeezed out of her lungs so fast that dark spots danced in front of her eyes. She detested cops. They never understood. They couldn't.

By virtue of their chosen careers, they were diametrically opposed to her and to what God forced her to do.

After a quick glimpse at the badge, which looked real enough, she met his gaze with insult. "Good for you." Again, she turned—and again he caught her arm.

Snarling, Gaby jerked free. "Back off, shithead, all right?"

In the universal sign of surrender, he raised his hands. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

Right. So that must be altruism emanating from him in scorching waves, making her head swim and her belly flinch? Even if her mission hadn't heightened her sense of smell, she would have seen through the lie.

Suspicion filled his dark eyes.

Curiosity.

And something else, something she didn't dare ponder.

"Great. I'm fine." This time when she stalked away, he kept pace with her. Oh Christ. She could feel him there, big and hot and powerful—and somehow amused, though he showed no expression. She had to shake him off. No way in hell could she take care of business with him tagging along.

Cops weren't keen on seeing people slaughtered.

What to do?

Tom by duty and caution, and the new, alien edginess, Gaby halted with an unmistakable show of exasperation. "What?"

Those dark eyes grew more intense as he scrutinized her. Somehow, he managed to appear bigger. Taller. And mean.

Being physically ripped apart couldn't hurt this much.

He struck a concerned frown. "You're still shaken. Look at your hands."

Gaby glanced down and bit off a lurid curse at her white-knuckled fists. She closed her eyes, carefully opened her hands, stretched out her fingers, loosened them until she appeared relaxed.

"Better?" he whispered.

Fuck off. No, she better not say that. Pain shredded her nerves. His appeal nearly destroyed her. Together, the dual influences could do her in.

She gritted her teeth. "Just dandy."

He took a step closer. "Where're you headed?"

The pain amplified, signaling an urgency to the moment. His presence had at first blunted the pain, but now her time had run out. She all but panted to keep control. "And that's your business because… ?"

Something within him sharpened; she felt it like tiny pinpricks from a million needles. He kept his expression enigmatic, but the strength of his purpose enveloped her. "You assaulted a man."

Resisting the wild urge to run, Gaby rested her weight on one hip and crossed her arms over her chest. "Self-defense."

"Yeah?"

"He grabbed me."

Detective Cross agreed with a slow nod. "I saw. You acted like Satan himself had you."

Her chin shot up. For a minute there, she hadn't been sure.

A quirky smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Bogeymen aren't real, but unfortunately jerks are."

Both she and God knew that he couldn't be more wrong. Bogeymen, demons, vile incarnations and perversions of the sickest kind… they walked the earth in greater might than all the jerks combined.

But she had neither the time nor the inclination to school him on reality. She'd amused him enough.

"So Where'd you learn to move like that? Most women would have slapped his face and started crying. You knocked him out." He snapped his fingers, "Just like that. You've had special training?"

If you could call God a Trainer.

But Gaby couldn't tell him that. The pain in her belly ruptured, boiling up her throat and into her lungs and heart. She had to go.

Arms curled around her middle, her back teeth sawing together, she sought coherent words. "Are you arresting me or what?"

His head tilted back and something flickered in his expression, as if he'd just noticed her discomfort. The seconds ticked by, driving her urgency, sharpening the mauling agony.

Very softly, with a tip of his head, he said, "Not."

She let out a broken breath. And this time when she strode away on stiff legs that made her gait awkward, he didn't follow.

But damn it, Gaby felt his gaze and couldn't resist the urge to look over her shoulder.

She wished she hadn't.

He stood there, staring after her, somehow dark and bright at the same time. He looked… speculative, and the last thing she needed was some damn nosy cop wondering about her.

Thank God, he hadn't asked for her ID or even her name. If she became known in the area, she'd have to move on.

Again.

Blaming him for the excess of her pain, Gaby glared, and he began walking backward, moving away from her while keeping her in his sights. Gaby watched, waiting for him to round the corner, to go about his business, whatever that business might be.

He didn't. When he reached the drunk still sprawled on the walkway, he stood over him a moment, then knelt down and helped him sit up. Gaby's eyes widened. Damn it, the scuffle in front of the bar was her business, and she wanted Detective Luther Cross's nose out of it.

The drunk's friends staggered forward, and with horrified realization, Gaby watched as the detective began to grill them all. Shüüt.

She didn't trust that cop, not even a little. She considered intervening, but…

With Detective Cross no longer a threat, the real menace throbbed throughout the air like a thundering heartbeat, consuming her. Had she missed her chance? Was she too late after all?

Would she have to carry the pain for days instead of a couple of hours?

No.

She couldn't bear that. She wouldn't bear it. Somehow, she'd make it on time.

No cop had ever succeeded in halting her activities. She'd be damned if she'd let one get in her way now.

Teeth clenched, Gaby replaced her glasses over her eyes and broke into a hobbled run. At first, the agony nearly crippled her, but exerting herself physically helped give the pain guidance into her legs and lungs. Her stride became more fluid, faster. Through a deeper precognition, she followed her way to the trigger much as a dog trailed a scent.

Without tiring, without bumping into people or hazarding traffic, Gaby ran the length of the narrow street.

She saw no one, felt nothing.

Noise surrounded her, but beyond the slapping of her flip-flops and her own coarse, grating breath, she didn't hear a thing.

Less than a mile into her run, Gaby's urgency for speed waned, as did the pulse of life. Devoid of traffic, conversation, and children at play, an eerie stillness pervaded the area. No drunks fouled the air with insults. Birds didn't sing. The air stilled.

Gaby glanced around. Startling silence roared in her brain; she drew a strained, heavy breath.

Sweat glued her hair to her forehead and sealed her shirt to her flesh. In the furthest recesses of her mind, Gaby still felt the burning of her muscles and the tripping beat of her heart, but she remained unaffected by physical dominion.

In front of her, looming dark and still, an abandoned factory lured her. Determination and duty carried Gaby up the slight incline, over broken glass, sharp twigs, and crumbling concrete. Dead, moldered bugs crunched beneath her feet.

At the oily remains of an old discarded engine. Gaby paused. She was close. With each step she took toward the bulky, blackened brick face of the factory, the more her vision blurred. Eventually, she knew she'd see only vague outlines haloed by constantly shifting colors, tints, and hues to guide her actions and infuse her with necessary information.

Her feet moved by rote, taking her to a burned-out lot that butted into a decaying woods, concealed at the back of the building.

The core of the misery nestled here.

Bile burned in Gaby's chest, her pace lagged—and then it seized her in its awful, unrelenting vise. For too many heartbeats, the choking impact squeezed her gangling body. A futile cry gurgled in her throat before she regained herself, accepting the pain and deciphering its instruction.

Reflective heat undulated from the asphalt, seeping through Gaby's rubber flip-flops, sealing her within the pain so that it was a part of her, and her a part of it.

Forcing her heavy, plodding limbs to move, Gaby circled around the minacious face of the structure. Black as sightless eyes, broken windows stared at her. Her breath came in silent wisps, inadequate to feed her starving lungs.

The horror of what she knew she'd find shrieked in her brain.

She didn't want to do this.

But, oh God… she knew she had no choice.

She never did.