Invaded

by Jennifer M. Eaton

  Her wet socks slapped against the linoleum. She turned the shower to hot and tugged off her sopped clothing, leaving it in a heap beside the toilet. Slipping through the glass doors, she allowed the heat to overcome the goosebumps coating her skin.

  She’d been hanging out the window. In a rainstorm. In the middle of the night. She could have fallen!

  Tracy turned off the water and propped herself against the cool tiled wall. Her world had already turned upside down, but now sleepwalking? And what the hell possessed her to climb out the window?

  She grabbed a towel and dried herself. She didn’t need to worry about what had possessed her, but who.

  Thunder boomed outside, rain streaming across the bathroom window in torrents. This wasn’t something she could ignore. There was no way she’d been sleepwalking.

  She slipped on a pair of warm flannel PJs and stood in front of the mirror. Dark circles highlighted puffy rings under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept in weeks.

  Squinting to see within her pupils, she leaned toward the mirror. “Where were you going?”

  Silence stirred within her mind, as if she were alone. As if she were normal.

  Tracy knew better.

  She stretched, her muscles aching like she’d spent the night working out. She glanced at the window and the water pooled on the floor. What had she been doing all night?

  She threw her towel over the puddle and dragged her fingers through her wet hair. “Listen,” she whispered. “John says to give you time, that you need to rest and maybe you’ll be able to explain things.” She bit her lip. “How can you have the strength to climb out a window but not enough to talk to me?”

  *Sorry.*

  The word slapped her like a hand across her cheek. “Adonna?”

  *Sorry.*

  Holy shit.

  Tracy’s heart throttled against her ribs. “Sorry for what?”

  *Wrong.*

  Tracy closed her eyes and let her head fall back. “Can you please tell me what’s wrong?”

  She grabbed her arm. Three raised, red abrasions stung her skin. Scratches…probably from the bushes outside the window. So, she had been outside.

  Holding her head, Tracy paced the bathroom floor. How could John stand living like this, knowing your body may have gone somewhere and done God knows what, while you were sleeping? How was it possible for her muscles to be moving without her even knowing it?

  John certainly didn’t like Dak controlling him, but he seemed far more accepting, at least on the outside. Was that all for show—to make her feel better; or did he really trust Dak as much as he led on?

  Over and over, he’d said that it would be better once Adonna could explain herself, but these one and two-word answers were driving her crazy. This entire experience had been a nightmare, and she wanted to be done with it.

  She should call Agent Clark right now and get this over with before John and Dak could try to talk her out of it again.

  A flash of ice followed a whispering jitter inside her tummy.

  Who was she kidding? As annoying as this thing inside her was, it was alive. Now that Tracy knew extraction was a death sentence, she’d have to find a way to make this work.

  They were going to have to find a way to make it work.

  “But we’re going to have to live within some boundaries. You owe me at least that much.”

  Did she, or was it the other way around? Tracy had been dead. Period. End of story. Adonna had saved her, but did that give her the right to do anything she wanted with Tracy’s body?

  No. It wasn’t right. They had to learn to live together. They had to find a way to communicate.

  Clearing her throat, Tracy closed her eyes. “Okay, maybe we should start over. Thank you for saving my life. I appreciate it.”

  She resisted the temptation of adding the word bitch to the end of the sentence. Could Adonna sense her bitterness, even though she was trying to take a step in the right direction?

  Nothing but a warm feeling swirled in her chest. That had to count for something.

  “My name is Tracy. Yours is Adonna, right?”

  A giggle burst from her lips. Tracy covered her mouth. Where had that come from? An involuntary reaction? A manifestation of her entity? If only she could tell the difference, maybe she could make some sense out of this insanity.

  Tracy rubbed her palms across her lap, steadying herself. “So, how are things going in there? Have you ever been inside a human before?” Damn, did that sound stupid.

  A voice rose from deep within her. *Yes.* A deep whisper. Her own voice, yet not her own.

  Okay. Good. That’s a start. Tracy trembled. “Okay, wow, so…”

  What the heck do you say to an alien living inside your body?

  “Are you done with that whole healing-me thing?”

  *No.*

  “So you’re still tired, huh?”

  *Yes.*

  “Sorry about that. I guess you didn’t plan on this much work when you jumped inside me.”

  No answer.

  “John says that when you’re stronger, we can have conversations with more than one word. Not that there’s anything wrong with one word.” Damn. Why did this have to be so hard?

  *Yes.*

  It was probably improper to ask but she needed to know. “I was wondering about last night. Did you go somewhere?”

  *No.*

  “Then why was I climbing out the window?”

  No answer.

  Tracy flopped against the wall behind her. “Okay, then can we talk about what happened with John? I was enjoying his touch. You pushed him away.” Silence lingered. Maybe she needed to ask an actual question. “Do you like John?”

  *Yes.*

  Well, that’s good. “Then why did you push him away?”

  *Not right.*

  But he was right. Every stinking inch of him. She was damned if she’d finally found the man of her dreams and have it screwed up by something out of her control. “What’s not right about John?”

  *Not John.*

  The warmth ran from Tracy’s face. “Dak? Why don’t you like Dak?”

  *Wrong.*

  What the frig does that mean? “You need to give me more than that. They’re a package deal. What’s wrong with Dak?”

  No answer.

  Tracy gritted her teeth, waiting. “Adonna? Adonna talk to me!”

  It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t say that Dak was wrong and not explain. Dak was part of John. There was no having one without the other. Yes, Dak was a bit overbearing, and God knew was self-centered, but, but…but everything.

  “Please give him a chance,” Tracy whispered.

  The silence berated her until she fell into tears.

  51

  John showered, dressed, and checked his voice mail. No messages from Tracy. Then again, it was only 6:00 a.m. Sane people were still asleep.

  He slipped into his blazer and reached for his shoes, but they weren’t beside the closet where he always left them. His brow furrowed. He’d been exhausted when he got home the night before. Maybe he left them somewhere else?

  Retracing his steps, he checked the bathroom, the kitchen, and finally found his shoes beside the front door.

  Odd. He had no recollection of leaving them there.

  John slipped the right shoe onto his foot and balked at the caked mud stuck in the heel and now all over his hand. Why were his shoes filthy?

  Lightning struck outside. The weather could certainly be to blame, but had it been raining before he got home last night? In the morning, yes, but not last night.

  He must have stepped in a mud puddle earlier and not realized it.

  Staff Sergeant Biggs’s office was closed when John arrived at the precinct, so he eased into his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk.

  Two dead cops. They wouldn’t be able to keep the details from the media much longer. The last thing they needed were copycats looking for a reason to kill and mutilate police officers.

 
; But this didn’t have anything to do with cops. Deep in his gut, he knew it. But on the off-chance he was wrong, Biggs would have to keep the patrols on extra alert. It wasn’t fair not to have everyone as prepared as possible.

  Art Commings pulled his chair up alongside John’s desk. The artificial leather squeaked as he sat. “You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “What do you mean? You know everything I do.”

  Art looked over his shoulder before leaning closer. “I was just grilled by the Feds. They asked tons of questions. Wanted to know if I’d seen anything out of the ordinary—about you.”

  John gripped the edge of his desk. “What did you tell them?”

  “What do you think? That you’re an annoying pain in the ass with great instincts and I’m pissed off that I’ll always be trailing in your footsteps.”

  John cracked a smile.

  “Seriously, man. I—” His cell phone rang, and he checked the screen. “Shit. It’s my mom. Give me a sec.” He stood and walked toward the coffee machine.

  John stared at the nearly-filled carafe, wishing he’d poured a cup before Art got here. Not that the coffee here was that good, but he needed a serious dose of caffeine. He hated it when Art didn’t show up with Starbucks.

  Art shouted into his phone, “Mom, just hold it together. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  John stood as Art walked over. “What happened?”

  “My father is on a respirator.” His lower lip trembled. “They don’t… They can’t…”

  Sergeant Biggs pushed open the door to his office. Dark lines accented sunken eyes. “Peters, I need you, pronto.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be right there.” And to Art, “You okay to drive?”

  “No. I ain’t going anywhere.” He pointed toward Biggs’s office. “Whatever is going on here is bullshit. I can’t let you walk in there alone. I got your back.”

  “No, you don’t.” He turned to Biggs. “Commings needs a vacation day. His father took a turn for the worse.”

  Biggs glanced at Art, then to John, then back to Art. “How long do you need?”

  Art shrugged. “I can be back tonight.”

  “Like hell,” John said. “I wasn’t there when my dad died, and I’ve never forgiven myself. You’re not making the same mistake. You get a vacation. Take it, goddammit.”

  Art’s nose flared. He spoke between clenched teeth. “Someone is out for my partner’s ass. How many times have you been there for me?”

  “This is different. I can handle Biggs. Your mom needs you.”

  Art pressed his lips together before he nodded and grabbed his coat. He slapped John’s back twice. “If they start shoveling shit, call me.”

  John snorted. “You got it.”

  Biggs watched Art slip out the door. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

  “Yeah, well, it is.”

  The sergeant’s grim visage hadn’t changed.

  “What’s the big emergency?” John asked.

  He motioned to his office.

  John followed and a chill coated his skin as the door closed behind him, leaving him alone with Biggs and Agents Clark, Green, and Evans: the three dimwitted musketeers.

  “What’s going on? Did you finally realize you still need me on your case?”

  Agent Clark pushed off the edge of the desk. “In a way, yes, Detective Peters.”

  Green nodded, while Evans glared.

  Clark narrowed his eyes. “New evidence makes you intrinsic to the case, as a matter of fact.”

  John shrugged. “So, go ahead, spill it. What’s the new evidence?”

  Agent Green rested his hands on the back of a chair. “Where were you last night, Detective Peters?”

  Huh? “Working. I have a case, too, remember?”

  “You were here at the precinct all night?” Clark asked.

  John’s stomach sank. “No. I left around eleven p.m.”

  “And then what?”

  “I went home and went to bed. It was a goddamn long day.”

  “Where were you around two a.m.?”

  “Sleeping. What’s with you?”

  Biggs towed him back and John realized he’d advanced toward Clark.

  “There was another murder last night, John.” Biggs’s voice sounded sad, fatherly, repentant.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  Clark cleared his throat. “This one was different. It looks like the victim fought back, and the unconfirmed suspect punished her for it.”

  John’s face flushed. This maniac had cut up every victim viciously before he killed them. If that wasn’t punishment, he couldn’t imagine what was.

  “Amelia Smith, age twenty-four.” Agent Evans drew a photo out of a file. “Cause of death, excessive blood loss due to removal of limbs,” he said, with all the sensitivity of ordering a hoagie for lunch.

  “What?” John reached for the grizzly photo, but Agent Evans yanked it back.

  “Her wrists were broken from the pressure of her assailant’s grip.”

  John clenched his fists. Bastard. “Murder weapon?”

  “His hands. He’s found a new way to make them bleed. He ripped her arms right off, so she couldn’t fight back anymore.”

  John cringed. The cuts had become successively deeper with each victim. More blood each case. This maniac was getting off on it. And now this?

  A shudder ran through him. That kind of strength, it wasn’t natural—not without an Ambient.

  Shit.

  Dak rustled below John’s navel as Clark plucked the photo from Evans’s hand and shoved it in John’s face. The remains were barely recognizable as a body with all the blood and dismemberment.

  “Forensics believes the unconfirmed suspect held her to the floor with his foot, and from the blood spill, they think he ripped both arms out at the same time.” Clark seemed to study John’s expression.

  “That’s impossible,” John said. “Even if he was drugged up.”

  But they knew that. And they knew that John knew it, too. That’s why he was here. They wanted firsthand information on Ambient-induced strength, and he was one of the few hosts with a documented case of super-human ability.

  He focused on the girl’s face. Did she have a family? Children of her own?

  “Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts last night, Detective Peters?”

  What little blood still flowed through his veins froze. Each agent’s emotionless gaze had locked on him. Biggs looked at the floor.

  Shit. “You can’t possibly think this was me.”

  Agent Green’s attention switched to the screen of his phone. “It says here, four and a half years ago, September fifteenth, you ran into a burning building. Firefighters reported you pulled a two-ton beam out of a doorway, freeing the family trapped inside.”

  “Yeah, well, I probably had some leverage, and what does that have to do with anything?”

  “The last two crime scenes and victims’ remains show signs of enhanced strength, detective. The kind of strength no man alone should have.”

  “Sure, I get that, but it wasn’t me. Sergeant, you know me better than that.”

  Biggs looked up. “I have complete faith in you, John.” He rubbed his eyes. “When you ran into that burning building you reported blacking out. You had no recollection of saving those people.”

  That was true enough. But he’d protected people that day. Saved lives. This was something completely different.

  Biggs had been the only person in the precinct that John had told about Dak, and only after the sergeant had been cleared by the FBI. Biggs had been nothing but supportive and hadn’t mentioned John’s situation since.

  John turned to his superior, his friend. “My Ambient didn’t do this.”

  “I’d like to believe that, John, but we have no way of being sure it wasn’t involved.”

  “How about my word? Don’t you think I would know if someone had used my body to kill people?” He glanced down at his shoes an
d the mud still caked on the heels.

  Crap.

  Dak, buddy, you’re being awfully damn quiet. Help me out here.

  Nothing.

  Agent Green slipped his phone into his suit jacket. His lips pursed slightly, and his eyes showed a faint quiver before he recovered his blank expression. Evans moved behind John as Green revealed a set of handcuffs.

  John struggled against Evan’s grip as Green walked toward him. “This is ridiculous. You’re arresting me? You have no evidence.”

  Green clicked the cuffs around John’s wrists as Clark picked up a long white cylinder from inside a box on the desk.

  An extractor. Shit.

  Dak swirled inside him, slamming against his back as if trying to escape the body he’d attached himself to. *John, help me!*

  The cylinder began to hum as Clark twisted a dial in the center of the device. “Article fifty-one of the Ambient Accord states that any entity believed to have committed a crime shall be extracted and nullified.”

  John twisted against the other agents’ grip. Could he use Dak’s strength to take them both out? Probably, but what would it say about Dak’s innocence if he did? Or his own, for that matter.

  Clark pointed the rod at his face.

  “No!” John shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. He turned his face into his shoulder. They weren’t taking Dak without a fight.

  *John, I’m scared.*

  “Open your eyes, Detective Peters. I can pull that thing out of you without your cooperation, but it will be a lot less painful if you let us take it.”

  “You have no proof.”

  “We have just cause. That entity is a suspect. We can’t risk it killing another human being.”

  *I didn’t hurt anyone. I swear it!*

  Where were you last night, Dak? Where did you take my body?

  *I would never hurt anyone! Please!*

  Dak pulsed within him, filling John’s body with his vapor-like spirit and easing back. Almost as if he were gasping for air.

  “This isn’t right. Dak didn’t do this.”

  At least he hoped he hadn’t.

  No. He knew.