Chapter 4

Unlike most people, I have no aversion to dark streets or narrow alleyways. I do some of my best hunting in these places. I love the feeling of a change in pulse when my heart rate quickens, the sole thing that lets me know I’m alive on nights like this. I suppose it’s why I’m always so aware of what my heart is doing from one moment to the next. Slowing, fluttering, pounding like a drum. Seems more like an indicator of how much danger I’m facing or how bored I am. Otherwise, I’d kill without noticing the subtle innuendos of fear or excitement.

In my wakened life, I usually don’t have the luxury of elevated blood pressure. There’s little about working at a bank that pumps me up. Typically, banking is a normal, safe environment. Dull. I prefer the thrill of blood racing through my veins to a safe and moderate life. I love confrontation, but on my terms.

In my dreams, I have control over the outcome. At least, for the most part. I’m strong. In fact, I was born with the ability to achieve the strength of five men, or two male angels, as long as I train. And I do, every day, for every possible scenario. The predator has no idea what he’s up against. Basically, he thinks he’s got it all figured out. He sees a vulnerable woman and feels assured his dream will end his way. Me? I create a new narrative, one he’s not expecting. I change the story to allow an escape plan for his prey. Then, I turn his anger back on him. Most times, he destroys himself by trying to eliminate me. If I stay calm, become totally aware of my surroundings, in most cases it all comes together beautifully.

As I walk the empty streets in the realm of my dreams tonight, I’m enjoying the quiet moments before the fight. My mind clears as I breathe in the scent of emptiness surrounding the early formation of my nightmare. This space is devoid of hatred and anger, allowing the desperation of the hunter and the hunted souls to incubate. The scent alters and I catch a glimpse of a shadow scurrying into an alleyway ahead. I’m not sure if they’re victim or perpetrator. There’s only one way to know for sure.

When I round the corner, I notice the sleeve of a coat pull behind a barrel. Could be a trap. I know better than to wander up to them without checking their scent. My eyes closed, I wait for their subconscious to reach out to me. Soon the smell of rubbing alcohol, translucent tape and latex gloves infuses the vacant air. Their sound emanates the soft hiss of a respirator, lightly puffing while a child quietly moans. An unexpected tear rolling down my cheek startles me and I draw a quick breath.

How did that happen? I never cry. At least, I haven’t cried in decades.

The soul behind the barrel has a daughter wasting away with cancer. The young girl awaits the surgery to remove her brain tumor. No insurance. Inching toward the frightened woman, my eyes burn with the tears I’m fighting.

Cautiously approaching the barrel, I crouch and peer around the side to see her wild eyes. “Are you okay?” She doesn’t answer although she knows I won’t hurt her. She can smell kindness on me. “Come with me. I know a safe way out.”

When she places her hand in mine, I pull her to her feet. “Your name is Julia, isn’t it?” She nods. “Julia Lyster?” She nods again. “I have a message for you, Julia. When you wake tomorrow, go to the Bank of Colorado Springs on Academy Boulevard. Don’t forget. A grant was set up in your name to help pay your bills. I’m sure it’ll be more than enough to take care of your needs.”

When I smile at her, she smiles back. As tears fill her eyes she flings her arms around my shoulders and surrenders a grateful hug. I’m hesitant to hug her, not fond of displaying emotions, so I rub her back to comfort her instead. “Everything’s going to be okay. But you need to be at your daughter’s side right now, all right?” She wipes away a tear and nods. “Let’s go.”

I need to get her to safety and there’s no water in the general area of this dream. My only other chance is to find another surface that will reflect her image. There are no mirrors, but there could be glass. Yes. That’s it.

After taking her out to the main road, I lead her down the street. Not far from the alley we’ve exited is a building with a large, unbroken window. Once there, I turn her until her back is to the glass.

“When you wake, go to the bank as soon as it opens. Speak with the branch manager, Jaime Connor, or her assistant, Sarah Maxfield. They’ll have the money for you, okay?” She nods, sniffling and wiping tears from her cheek with the back of her arm.

Her body jolts when I grab her by the shoulders of her jacket and throw her backward into her image. The minute her body hits, she disappears and I’m comforted that she awoke. Staring into the glass, I imagine her waking in the chair at her daughter’s side, resurrected from her nightmare. Another tear escapes my eye and I quickly wipe it away. I can’t afford to be weak. Time to move on.

The call of the demon leads me down a quiet back street, whispering in my mind like a haunting dirge. My senses are heightened. There are no mortal sounds in this dank existence but the clap of my bare feet on dry pavement. In this dream, my clothing is the same I’d worn to bed. Their expectations of me are low, making me realize this planned kill is unemotional, no more than a contract.

As my presence echoes past empty warehouses and shuttered buildings, my heart begins to quicken its pace. Tension builds in the air, but it isn’t my tension. The monster senses me, thinking I’m Julia.

Suddenly, my footsteps aren’t the only echoes I hear. Another set of feet duplicate my pace. Intentionally hesitating, I give them time to catch up. Their gait slows as well, like they’re toying with me, hoping to intensify the expectant fear.

I’m unsure how much I want to invest in this evening. I’m still not healed from last night’s ambush. Still, there’s a part of me that wants to play with this predator, for Julia’s sake more than mine. She deserves to sleep well knowing he won’t bother her anymore. Maybe I’ll wait to see how aggressive they become before determining how painful their death will be.

There are no weapons at my disposal here. Brick exteriors and boarded windows form a bleak backdrop for my nightmare. I’ll have to use strength to remove this demon from existence. After sauntering for five barren blocks, I duck around the next corner. Leaning against the wall, I patiently wait for the demon.

They slow, taking their time, wondering if I’ll ambush them. When he rounds the building and finds me there, fear stirs his anger. Soon, a knife appears in his hand and he’s shoving me flat against the bricks. I could have dodged, taken him out before he even saw me, but what would the fun in that be? With the blade to my throat, he tries to hide the panic in his eyes, working to stoke his fury, but I see more than he can feel.

His sense of the monster he’s become has numbed him to all other reality. He uses self-pity to reconcile the violence. I don’t care what he has endured or how bad he feels about himself, there’s no reasonable explanation of murder for pleasure.

The scent of dirty money coats his soul. He works for a loan shark. His job is to settle up with the debtor, sometimes make an example of them. The type of example he prefers is terror, even death.

At the smell of demise on me, he begins to sweat. “Where’ve ya been?”

“Oh, you know, around.” Staring flatly into his eyes, I intentionally push him toward the line of anger. I’m not sure why.

His teeth grind behind tight lips, a thin mustache moves back and forth in frustration. “Where’s the money?”

“Uh, what money?”

A twitching eye betrays his mounting dread. “The money you owe Larry. Where is it? You’re suppose ta have it by last week and then you disappear. You know, Larry’s pretty mad. I’d of spoke up for ya again, but then I’d look bad. I already told Larry you’d have it for him once before. He thinks I lied. I don’t like Larry thinkin’ I’m a liar. That’s bad for business. You understand that, don’t ya?” The stench of stale cigarettes assault my senses as he speaks.

“Well… Maybe. But you’re a liar because you’ve never told Larry any such thing for anyone.” His fingers shift nervously on the handle of his knife as I continue. “You’re a selfish man. You wouldn’t move your lips a millimeter to help another.”

This life he professes to despise is the life he relishes. When he kills a desperate person, he thinks he’s destroying the part of him he loathes. Yet, no matter how many destitute souls he brings to their knees, he’s never satisfied. He will never be satisfied.

The truthfulness of my revelation causes him to fear me more, which just increases his anger. I wonder why he hasn’t already tried to kill me.

“Shut up! You don’t know anything ‘bout me.” Fear is replaced with rage as his facial gestures become animated.

But I merely shrug my shoulders, triggering his fury and causing him to slap me. Part of me thrills at stirring his anger. When the sting of his blow wears off, I shoot a disapproving glare at him and slowly shake my head.

“Yer stallin’. Gimme the money or ya know what I’ll do.”

“Paint my nails? I’m desperately in need of a manicure.” My expression doesn’t change as his jaw tightens.

Growing impatient with my insolence, he presses the blade into my neck. “Ya wanna manicure? D’ya realize I can kill ya? Larry gave me the choice, ya know. Yer life’s mine, now. An’ seein’ I’m the one who’s controllin’ your ability ta keep breathin’, maybe you should ask yourself: will he kill me tonight or will he let me live? I’m known for bein’ reas’nable, though, if you beg real nice, I might find it in my heart to give you some time even though you’ve greatly disrespected me. What d’ya think?” Suddenly, he becomes annoyingly condescending. “D’ya need more time? Huh? Can you get down on your knees and ask for one more week?”

“How about another month?”

The fool doesn’t realize I’m unfazed by his lack of control. Instead of reassessing the situation, he grits his teeth and swings his fist at me, not even considering I might be able to kill him with a simple head-butt to the nose. Rather than defend myself, I decide to accept the blow and see what happens. The disaffected look in my eyes infuriates him even more.

“I wanna hear ya beg,” he growls, grinding his teeth as he speaks. “Makes me feel like I’ve accomplished somethin’ today when someone’s cryin’ on their knees. Don’t ya agree?”

“Nope.” I smile. “I prefer a manicure. Just look at these nails.” My eyes narrow as I raise my fingers to his line of sight.

No matter what his victim does, regardless of how sincerely they beg, he kills them anyway. This punk followed me, believing I was Julia, with intent of taking me out even if Larry already had the money she owed. He doesn’t care she has a daughter dying in the hospital. This guy revels in the power of making someone cry, pleading for their life. And just as they think he’ll show mercy, bam! He kills them. Bastard.

When he slaps my face again, I feel the bite of his blow linger on my flesh. “You better feel like begging for yer life, bitch.”

Sigh. I hate when they call names. Thusly, I feel a sarcastic wave coming over me. Oh, wait, I was already drowning in sarcasm. Never mind. “Can’t we talk about this?”

He grabs my shirt in his fists and slams me against the brick wall again. Guess he doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor, but I laugh in his face anyway. “You enjoy this far too much.”

The knife to my throat again, his words shower me with spit. Great! A spitter. “I said beg! I wanna hear ya cryin’!”

“I lack experience in begging. And yet, something tells me you’ve been on your knees before. So, how about it, can you show me how you did that? A simple demonstration.” My voice is flat to show the absence of fear.

Before he can answer my belligerence, I reach my hand over the top of his, the one holding the blade, and grab him by the pinkie. While I’m bending it backward, he growls in pain as I stare into his eyes and snap the bone. Grabbing the next finger, I break it at the knuckle until it bends in the shape of a “u.” His screams echo between the buildings as I reach for another and crush the bones with my index finger and thumb. Finally, he drops the knife, but catches it in his other fist.

Cool move.

Turns out he’s ambidextrous, too, as he slashes the blade across my abdomen. Damn, I hadn’t anticipated that. Anger burns through me. These are my favorite pajamas. No doubt I’m bleeding all over them and my bed and will probably need more stitches when I wake.

After examining my stomach, I lift my eyes to his. He’s stunned at my reaction, cradling his hand in his arm. Playtime is over. With one swift movement, I knock the knife from his grasp and jam the heel of my hand into his nose with near deadly force, knocking him to the ground. I hear the distinctive snap of his collarbone. Blood pours from his face and I’m reminded of Phillip Bradley. Two different people, both poisoned with black souls.

As I’m about to pick up his knife, I’m hit in the left side with something solid and long. Shit! It can’t be the same asshole who blindsided me last night. I fall to my knees, holding myself while reaching for the blade and trying to catch my breath. My eyes search my surroundings, but there’s no one. The killer is writhing on the ground before me, groaning loudly over his broken fingers, nose and clavicle. He couldn’t have been the one to hit me. This scenario is almost familiar. But I haven’t killed him, yet. They didn’t even wait for the kill, bastards!

The demon debt collector screams out, “You broke my nose, you—”

“Shut up!”

I’m listening for their footsteps, but there are none. They’re here. I can smell them nearby. The sound of wind filtering through pine boughs fills the air. Whoever it is has the sound of the forest in their essence.

As I rise to my feet, holding my wound, another blow comes at me from the right and I barely reach my free hand out in time to block. I can’t see anything but a cloaked shadow moving in the darkness. I grit my teeth to keep from crying out in pain, unwilling to show weakness. Waiting for them to move, I hold both of my aching sides. Blood loss and pain slow my reaction as the shadow darts at me again. I’m struck by something hard and flat, a board maybe, across my back, sides, abdomen, all in rapid succession. Letting go of my wounds, my hands shoot up to block the board from striking me in the head. This devil is talented and fast. If it had connected, that blow would have knocked me out.

The world sways. Damn, I’m losing too much blood. My hand clamps back onto the wound. Another strike comes at me, hitting me square across the ribs. I hear the crack and know something is broken. I can’t withstand much more. This has to end now.

Still holding the knife, the blade facing away, I hunch over, waiting. I close my eyes and let my senses take over. A rush of wind whispers in the shadows and I smell wintergreen. My arm strikes out and I feel the blade connect. A groan confirms it. I’ve wounded them.

Before I lose consciousness, I fall to my knees beside the still twitching demon I was meant to exterminate—the debt collector—and plunge his knife deep into his sternum. His body goes limp and I fall to the pavement.