Furies- Thus Spoke

by O'Brian Gunn

  “A-O blood ain’t normal, padre.” Noir sways and lifts a shoulder. “I am O positive, that might have somethin’ to do with it.”

  Padre lights up a clove cigarette and removes the slide from the stage. “The fuck were you thinkin’ shootin’ up another person’s blood without lettin’ me check it first?” Smoke slithers thick from his nostrils as his Western drawl slithers thick past his lips. “Ain’t no tellin’ what the hell could be incubatin’ in you.”

  Noir lifts a shoulder. “Long as I burn through the candle before the flame sputters out.”

  “You shoot up some poet’s blood, too?” The man hands the syringe back to Noir. “Just because the blood’s okay don’t mean it’s okay. Might be something there that I can’t detect.” He takes a drag. “How’s your health, your other abilities?”

  Noir puts the syringe in the foam-lined case before slipping it into his pocket. “Health is fine. No pain or nothin’ when I pop my claws. Can only do short bursts of speed, though. Streak longer than a mile an’ it feels like my heart’s gonna go ka-blooey.”

  “Streak?”

  “’S what I call it when I move at super-speed.” He sniffs.

  Padre grunts. “And yet the guy you sucked the blood from didn’t seem to have any problem.”

  “That’s ’cause his body was wired for it, genes an’ shit shufflin’ around so his ass could handle it even with his gimp arm.”

  The man’s eyes rove over Noir’s fit frame. “Ain’t a complete dumbass after all. Look, brother, you need to wait a few weeks before you shoot up any more blood, see if there’re any long-term effects. What was the other poor fool’s ability?”

  Noir points at his eyes. “All in the peepers. Woman could see heat signatures, see in the dark, had sharper vision.” Smirk. “Pretty sweet, huh?”

  The other man goes to the sink and rinses off the slide. “You kill her?”

  “Jus’ knocked her out is all. No harm.”

  Padre turns around, taps ash, shoves the cigarette back in his mouth, and peels off his latex gloves. “Yeah, you just popped the bitch unconscious and stole her blood. No foul play there.”

  “Exac’ly, man.” He puts his hands on his waist. “Anythin’ else?”

  A finger kissed with powder jabs. “Yeah: don’t shoot up that blood. As a matter o’ fact, you need to get rid of the junk and stop whatever the hell it is you’re doin’ to your body, cause at the end of the day, you’re just fuckin’ yourself in the head.”

  Noir holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, man. Damn.” He pulls a thick envelope from his back pocket, throws it onto the desk.

  He wipes his hands on a towel, eyes on Noir. “Where?

  “What?”

  He takes the black cylinder from the corner of his mouth. “Where’d the money come from?”

  Noir steps forward and reaches for the envelope. “Look, man, if you don’t wanna be paid for services rendered—”

  A hand around his wrist.

  This close, Noir can feel the heat from the cigarette. Padre’s hands are dry and gritty with powder.

  “Jus’ tell me where you got the money from.”

  “Coupla pussy pushers on Elizabeth. They were purposely infectin’ Johns with HIV. That, and I sold some of my rare Magic cards.”

  Eyes slide to the money. Eyes slide to Noir. His wrist is free. “Never pegged you for a nerd.”

  “Never go the way they expect, ‘s how you keep ‘em off guard and on their toes.” Noir leaves.

  Bisset rolls over in bed and sees The Dragoness stretched out on the other side. Her reflection looks over her naked shoulder out of the window to watch the belly of the sky burn with the approach of sunrise.

  “Astonishing, isn’t it?”

  Bisset turns over. “It’s too early in the morning for this.”

  “Too late at night, you mean.” She rolls over on her back and slides fingertips down her stomach. “How does it feel knowing your little savior might become a fornicator to achieve his goals?”

  The sleepy woman looks at her over her shoulder with bleary eyes.

  “Oh, Bisset, don’t look at me like that.” Hands beneath her head, legs crossed. “It’s like Seraph said, he’s a man. A deluded man who thinks he’s both more and less than he is.” She rolls her head to look at Bisset. “But a man nonetheless.” A finger slides down between her breasts. “And men have needs, desires, just like everyone else.”

  The sound of Michelle opening and closing her door bleeds through the walls.

  “Aren’t you going to protest, tell me he’s not like that at all, that he has the best intentions at heart?”

  “You talk like you’ve already been rooting around in my head for the answer to that question.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “Why should it make me feel anything?”

  Scoff. “Because the man whom you’re putting all this hope and faith in seems more concerned with his own problems and less with yours.” Giggle. “The masses would be horrified if they found out he might be infertile.”

  “As long as he can still help me.”

  “You shouldn’t pretend to be so apathetic. I feel what you feel, a modicum of it at least.” Pause. “But I have to admit that there’s a part of us that finds his...firmness against changing admirable. Adam is who he is and doesn’t hold any qualms about it whatsoever.”

  “You in love with him?” Bisset’s words are muffled against the pillow.

  “I don’t know love, darling, only suffering. You should take a message from him. You’ve been seeing him in that dank church for some time now and you’re no closer to getting rid of me than you were the day I slithered out from your consciousness.”

  Bisset pulls the covers up.

  “I’m not saying this to upset you. I only hope that one day you can accept me as you accept Adam and Seraph. Then, and only then, will you be rid of me. Accept yourself and I fade away.” She puts her mouth close to her hostess’s ear. “The universe demands balance, Bisset, don’t tip the scales in favor of chaos.”

  Bisset rolls over just as the first ray of sunlight pierces the horizon and trickles into her apartment. The Dragoness vanishes. She turns back and finds Seraph floating cross-legged and angelic at her bedside.

  “Good morning.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “But, Perry—”

  “Jill, my hands are tied, and I can’t do shit else through the proper channels.”

  “Why can’t you just let the FBI handle this?”

  “Because it’s my case and I have to finish it. Did you find his number?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That quickly? Where?”

  “In the phone book.”

  “Who the hell still has a landline at his age? And he’s actually listed?”

  “Not as Sovereign, of course. As Adam Kensie.”

  “Figured he woulda changed his number as soon as he...came out.”

  “Probably screens his calls, tells people he’s out saving lives and souls and to leave a brief message.”

  “Alright, I’m calling.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Nope.”

  “Insane.”

  “Yes, is this the Kensie residence?...Excellent. You must be Maggie. Sorry to be calling so early in the morning, ma’am. This is Detective Perry West with the Dominion City Police Department. I was wondering if I could speak with your husband concerning an ongoing investigation...Oh, no, he’s not in any trouble or anything. After all he’s done to help out this department and the city, I couldn’t even bring myself to write him a citation.”

  “Want to remove your mouth from his di—”

  “Adam, good morning. Detective Perry West here. Look, I just wanted to call and apologize about my behavior before.”

  “Don’t roll your eyes like that.”

  “I’m sure you can understand my need to protect people, keep them safe from undue harm.
I think the reason I butted heads with you so hard is because you remind me of myself a bit. I just hate it that I let my emotions get the best of me like that. The Devil must have got a hold of me for a second. ”

  “You should’ve been an actor.”

  “Yeah. Right, I know. I know God forgives me, I just hope you can, too. But I was also calling because I really think we can solve this case together. Two guardians, one with a badge and the other with the power of the Almighty behind them. Libera Mentis Machina can’t even comprehend the righteous wrath that’s about to fall on them. So, do you think you can fly over to the Johnsons this evening?...No, that’s fine, I understand. You’ve got a pretty full schedule, can’t save everyone.”

  “You’re guilt-tripping the Sovereign of God? I think you just broke a commandment.”

  “You can? Okay, great, see you at six...God bless you, too.”

  “He’s not just some tool you can use like that.”

  “‘parently, he is. Can’t go back to that crime scene alone. If they do catch us, I’ll just tell them I was doing the Sovereign of God a favor by helping him find the Johnsons.”

  “And if they ask why you didn’t call in Beecher and Acevedo?”

  “I’ll tell ‘em the truth, that I wanted to finish what I started. Even if they don’t believe me or want to arrest the both of us for interfering, you think the public will allow their holy roller and his faithful assistant to be thrown in jail for doing the right thing? I think not.”

  “I’ll cover for you the best I can. Get in, snag the tracking device Caulley told us about, and get out.”

  “Open and shut case.”

  “Better hope it doesn’t shut with your ass hanging out the door.”

  The plunger depresses, igniting a spark at the tip of the needle. Scarlet lava devours the stream of blood in his body. Pain cascades and vision fades to points of light and synapses delight in the sense of pleasure and pain that strain at nerve fibers.

  Noir tugs the needle from his arm, shaking his vision and senses free of vertigo, and focuses on the muscular woman standing in front of him with her dukes up.

  “That some kinda drug you shoot up there, Jose?” Her voice is gritty and grating. She pivots, twists, and slugs him in the jaw.

  A galaxy explodes behind his eyes.

  He feels the birth of a bruise next to the one on his cheek that throbs like the one on his ribs. The pain pumps into rage. He knocks her head around with a wild hook before bringing his aching fist back in a backhand blow. He kicks her in the stomach, folding her over, and slams a knee into her nose. She stumbles back into the glass display case on the wall.

  “Hateful-ass bitch.”

  “You come and attack me at my job and have the nerve to call me a bitch!?” Her lip curls, her head shakes.

  Noir’s eyes start to itch. Then they feel as if sand has been poured into them.

  The woman splits into two, the second a perfect, fully clothed duplicate of the first. One grabs him from behind and the other slams her fists into his gut. He starts to weep. A jab thunders into his cheek. Something cracks and agony sears the side of his face. Uppercut to the chin. He involuntarily chomps down on his tongue and blood gushes in his mouth. He opens his eyes and sees nothing.

  Gripping hands on either arm, propulsion, weightlessness in the air. A sudden wall. His skeleton jars and jangles as it slides down. Fingers grip the back of his head before ramming his skull into glass. A moment of resistance that lasts and lasts and lasts before shattering like the glass. Shards slice and blood flows. Still, he is blind.

  Noir flexes his hands and sprouts his claws. He slashes. She blocks with the back of her wrist and plows her fist into his solar plexus.

  The blow brings back his vision. Her body is molded in reds and yellows that plume out from her core. He ducks under her fist and throws a body shot to her ribs while throwing his foot out behind him to land a blow on her twin’s nose. He’s busy trading blows with one while the other picks up a metal mannequin and drops it on his head, her massive arm muscles bulging under her compression shirt with the strain. He streaks out of the way at the last second and the metal mass slams into her other self.

  His vision winks out and leaves him in darkness. “Mierda!” Noir shakes his head to no avail.

  The two women grunt as they charge him, large boots clomping over hardwood. He times it just...right.

  SLASH!

  “Ah, shit!

  SLASH!

  “Mother fuck!”

  He blinks and his vision returns and is so bright that it nearly blinds him again. Light fixtures are like phosphorus suns jabbing luminance into his eyes. Hammering blows stain his brilliant vision. Blood dots the collar of his shirt in vivid relief against the white fabric.

  Two turns to three.

  Now there are six fists, six feet that want to spill his hybridized blood.

  Noir’s vision blips back to normal just in time to see the grimaces, twisted smiles, and bared teeth interspersed between stomping boots and bare knuckles speckled with his blood. He curls up in a ball and tries his best to protect his head as the tip of a boot cracks into his spine.

  A gleam of yellow-green eyes.

  A man’s soft hands grab one of the duplicates by the sides of the head. The hands do not squeeze or twist or yank. The long fingers of those hands twitch once along with the woman’s body. Her hands drop to her sides, her mouth agape and her eyes suddenly blank. The flesh around the fingers darkens to gangrenous green and black for a mere second. She collapses and does not move.

  Giorgio glides to the next duplicate.

  Every vein and artery in her body floods with blackness, death, and decay. Small black lightning bolts strike in the corner of her eyes, pupils dilating to onyx holes that stare into oblivion. She convulses, joints locking, popping, and locomotoring to a stuttering, spasmodic beat. She gurgles in time to her jerks.

  Giorgio glides.

  Before his hand can land, Noir drags his hooked claws deep across the woman’s exposed stomach and rolls out of the way as her insides become her outsides. He lays on the floor for a moment to catch his breath and see how many bones are broken, how many aches are aching, and how many toes he cannot feel. He rolls his eyes up to Giorgio.

  The handsome man’s skin has gone deathly pale with an unhealthy tint. His body is gaunt, cheeks deflated and his once beautiful hands reduced to skin wilting on bones. A curly lock of hair flutters to the floor.

  Noir rests his cheek on the cool tile and slides his eyes shut. “’Ey, G. You look like shit warmed over.” A grimace mars his mouth as he clutches his ribs. “And tha’s a compliment.” He spits out a glob of blood that hangs on a thin string from the corner of his mouth.

  “I used too much death essence, withers me back into my true self.” His jaw clacks and cracks. “Still learning the limits of my...” He bends down to the eviscerated corpse. “...abilities.” He grips the disemboweled woman by the forehead. Her skin goes a few shades paler as her built muscles and feminine curves seem to melt through her thinning flesh. The once tight top now hangs loose. Teeth work free from her open mouth to click onto the floor.

  Giorgio Quintero siphons her death and spins it into his un-life.

  Noir squints up at him with one eye, the other now swollen shut. “Nice. Think you could heal me like that?”

  “The process would kill you.” He takes a handkerchief from his pressed slacks, dabs it on his pink tongue, and wipes at Noir’s forehead. “My place isn’t too far from here, I’ll take you there and get you patched up.” He bends down and gently helps the broken man to his feet.

  “Get tired of sleepin’ in unmarked graves? Where you hangin’ your tombstone now?” He clenches his teeth in pain as he’s hoisted up.

  “A luxury townhouse my mother owns, in the same building as my old condo and the Johnson’s old residence. She goes there by herself every few months when she needs some time to slough out of her human skin and lounge around in her scale
s. I’ll take you there and then get some medical supplies.” Giorgio carries him out of the building.

  Noir notices the expression on his face. “What?”

  Giorgio looks down at him as he turns the corner. “Do you...You wouldn’t happen to have any money on you for cab fare, would you?”

  Noir grimaces. “Not unless you can pay with Bitcoin.”

  The undead man stops them. “Are you serious?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re one o’ them narrow-minded assholes who doesn’t think bitcoin is just—”

  “No, I just know you’re the son of Amaury and Eva Minadeo; it took me a moment to recognize you after we first encountered each other. The wealth your parents have amassed over the decades makes mine look like the scroungings of rusted coffers and plastic piggy banks.”

  Noir grimaces again for reasons unrelated to his pain. “Fuck.”

  “Surely you have a few tufts of diamond-encrusted lint in those perfectly distressed and woefully out-of-style cargo pants of yours.” Giorgio continues toward the nearby curb. “Did your parents disown you and cast you out of their house, pull your suckling lips from the considerable teat of their largesse? Is that why you’re doing this?”

  “Guy’s not allowed to walk his own path in life?”

  “Not in those boots he’s not.”

  A sigh. “Hand me my wallet in my back right pocket. Think that bitch mighta fucked up my shoulder and arm.”

  Giorgio reaches. “Like you couldn’t have your arm replaced with a top-of-the-line titanium prosthetic.” He pauses. He squeezes. “How the hell is your ass cheek this firm and plump? What’s your workout routine?”

  Leo opens his arms, eyeing the scar on his palm, and lets the wind swallow him. Rushing air pushes him back as he stands on a manifested force field platform that juts out from the edge of the rooftop of the Stratus Building.

  He looks down at the fifty-story fall. Looks up at the clouds sheathing night sky and stars. He takes deep breaths of the chilled air, shoulders slumping, and lays out on the hovering disc with his hands beneath his head and thoughts rushing his brain. He thinks of the life he might have had and the person he might have been had the Johnsons lived long enough to unleash his full happiness potential. Their touch might have reduced him to a blathering, drooling husk with a permanent grin, but there are worse ways to be out of touch with reality.