Blood and Guts - Left for Dead: A Romantic Suspense

by Gabi Moore

  My body retained elements from all of the different forms I had experienced thus far, though the overall combination was not terribly impressive.

  My skin was fleshy and pale. There were no protective scales, or luxurious natural tones. A quick look down at my hands and I realized that my claws had diminished from their weaponized, demonic state, but not quite as refined and gracious as they had been when I was a human. I might still be able to do some damage with them, but they were significantly less powerful than I remembered.

  I brought my hand to my mouth, and realized that my teeth were disappointingly sharp. I would still be able to eat well, and I could likely use them as a weapon as well, but the implications of tasting more blood in my mouth didn't quite sit with me.

  The water wasn't still enough to give me any sort of affirmative about my eyes, but I imagined that if the source of light was different in this world, my eyes wouldn't be the same either.

  Possibly the most disappointing aspect of my new form wasn't any of the physical characteristics just listed -- it was my wing.

  At least while I had been a demon, I had enjoyed the pleasure of flight once more. When I had been a human, the tattoos had at least been appealing in their own way. Whatever form I was in now, was just as disabled as my Fae body.

  I collapsed onto my ass and felt the first waves of loss pass through me. Each wave that followed made its own attempt at cheering me back up, and placing me back in that state of elation and purpose that had been so restorative. I looked around at the new world before my eyes and cried, alone on the shoreline.

  What have I done?

  Epilogue

  “Mom, mom! There’s a dead man on the sidewalk! Come quick!”

  The voices were faint, but they came through all right. The visions of afterlife still burned behind my eyelids. I had seen things that no man should ever be asked to see while continuing to be asked to live his life.

  “See! See! He’s not moving, and he’s just laying there!”

  “Oh my God. Somebody call an ambulance.”

  “No luck ma’am, you think he’s the only one, you’re delusional. Take a look around, this place is in awful shape. He’s probably another one of those freaks. Better to leave the dead where they are.”

  Freaks?

  I struggled to move, and with some effort, I was able to push myself upward.

  “Eeep!”

  “This one’s still got a pulse!”

  “Quick, roll him over.”

  “Oh my God, what happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe some kind of cult.”

  “Mom, why does he have markings all over his face?”

  “Hush…”

  “I don’t like this… I don’t think we should help him.”

  “Maeve said that she found a weird one the other day. Wings, and sharp teeth, like a demon. They tied it up and poured gasoline all over it. You know what happened next. They look human enough at first glance, but they’d just as soon eat your children as shake your hand.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “Sure I do. Maeve told me herself.”

  “What the hell does Maeve know? Besides, do you see wings on this one?”

  “You know, I’d do it just to be safe… back off. I’ll bet the wings are hidden underneath those robes of his.”

  A boot to the shoulder woke me out of my dream-state. The pain was so sudden and undeserved. A flare of anger grew inside of me. I tried to cut it out, but I couldn’t.

  Another sharp kick to the side, and my hand reached out of its own accord and grabbed the man by his leg. I was weak, but all I really needed was a point of contact. I reached into his body, and touched the only part of him that I could see clearly anymore. My fingers grasped something delicate, and separated it from his body.

  The man fell down to the floor, and his soul went free.

  Everyone screamed — and then, there was silence.

  - THE END -

  A New Dawn

  By Jae Vogel

  Chapter 1

  There had been times—many of them—when Aurora had searched “darkness dreams” or “dreams of total darkness” just to see what Dr. Google had to say. Rarely did everyone’s favorite physician have anything helpful to add.

  Darkness is symbolic of incomprehension, the unconscious, of malice, death, and concerns about the unknown.

  To dream that you are lost in the darkness indicates a sense of loss, uncertainty, or despair.

  But Aurora always forgot this advice when the dream was upon her. Tonight, it began as it always did. Darkness. On every side. Below, above, pressing against her skin like a physical thing. It felt soft, smooth, like satin; something that filled her with such dread should have felt cold or clammy. But no. She was adrift again in satiny darkness, having no way out, not knowing which way she even came in.

  Her real body in her bed twisted about, tangling slim legs and slender fingers through her sheets. In her dream, the darkness began to move. It was gradual, like something long-dead taking its first, hesitating breaths. It felt wrong, like something that should not be. And as the darkness flowed and whirled around her, the fear began. It was the hot-blooded fear of a rollercoaster and the racing-heart excitement of a first kiss, not all bad but completely terrifying. And Aurora was, as always, completely terrified.

  And now, the next act. The darkness began to tighten its noose, as it always did. Closer and closer, spinning in smaller circles until Aurora felt certain it must be about to strangle her. It never strangled her, though, not even tonight. In the waking world, her muscles tightened painfully, twisting together in anticipation.

  Through the darkness—Aurora felt it more than saw it—a hand reached. Whether it was to save her or harm her, Aurora never knew, but it grasped for her through the depthless, endless black night.

  Her cell phone blared a clanging alarm and Aurora snapped awake, panting. Sunlight filtered in through her curtains, slanting through the city buildings outside, finding its way here to where it was most needed. Nothing would have been half so welcome as the sight of sunlight after another one of the darkness dreams. They had been recurring all through her childhood, for as long as she could remember. Her mother had never had money for a psychiatrist, but whenever Aurora went to the school councilor the dreams were labelled as manifestations of abandonment anxiety.

  Wasn’t that something. Abandonment anxiety. Why ever would Aurora have that? It surely wasn’t her father walking out when she was little, no, definitely not that.

  Of course, Aurora reasoned as she fought out of her tangle of bedsheets, who didn’t have abandonment anxiety? Was there anyone in the world who liked being left high and dry?

  In the soft rays of sunlight, dust motes hovered and danced; realistically, it meant their apartment was old and musty, but they were strangely beautiful in the morning light. Aurora watched them float for a moment, still drowsy, wrapped in her quilt.

  “You up, baby?”

  “I’m up, Momma,” Aurora replied. An enormous yawn began halfway through the small sentence. She smiled and turned towards the door. “I’m up.”

  Never once in her life had Aurora woken before her mother. When she was in grade school, this had seemed natural. Why question it? That was just the way things were, and had always been. Aurora had just assumed that she didn’t need to sleep. The way children often do, Aurora had shrugged it off, seeing no need to worry.

  When she was in her teens, Aurora found out the truth of things; Ramona Potier was an insomniac, afflicted severely with an inability to fall asleep or even to stay asleep. She’d always made use of this handicap to work extra hours, as many as three jobs at once, to provide for herself and Aurora in New York, where even three jobs was sometimes not enough. It had cost her, in the end, and eventually Aurora had returned home from school senior year to find her mother curled up and shivering in the bathtub—she’d had a nervous breakdown. Overworked, the doctor said. Take a break. And he
re’s the bill.

  So at seventeen, Aurora had to assume responsibility for both of them. The last few months of high school had been terribly close, but she’d graduated and moved straight into the work force, taking up her mother’s mantle to keep a roof over their heads.

  That was five years ago. Five years of waitressing, bartending, shop keeping, running newspapers or pizzas (as circumstances demanded). Her high school friends had moved away to college, careers, their futures. And Aurora was here. Making ends meet. Stuck in an exhausting limbo where one day bled into the next and there was an endless need for another paycheck.

  Ramona wasn’t able to work anymore; something had seemed to break inside her the day she had her attack. Now curiously quiet and reserved, she rarely left the apartment. Her days were spent obsessively cleaning and obsessively looking after her daughter, to the point where Aurora sometimes felt no less than suffocated.

  Aurora snapped her sheets back into place just as Ramona’s voice sounded outside her door.

  “Aurora, sweetie—do you want me to bring you your cereal in bed?”

  Aurora rolled her eyes; most days, she could keep her exasperation to herself. “No, Momma, I’m going to come out and eat with you.”

  Rubbing sleep and the last bits of the dream from her eyes, Aurora opened the door to her room and joined her mother in the kitchen. A tiny table was squeezed in the corner by the window; Ramona was sitting here, and it looked like she’d been sitting there for hours already. Her skinny frame was settled in her usual chair, hair up in a scarf, gazing out the window absently.

  “What’cha thinkin’ about?” Aurora asked cheerfully from the kitchen. She poured a bowl of cereal (Cinnamon Toast Crunch) and splashed in some milk. Her mother still hadn’t answered by the time she put both box and carton away and took her seat at the table.

  “Oh, nothing,” Ramona answered finally, dreamily.

  Aurora swallowed the sharp reply that came to mind. She already knew what her mother was thinking about. The same thing she was always thinking about this time of day, in this still hour, when another sleepless night had passed. Aurora’s father. Where the daughter was plagued by fitful dreams and simmering resentment, Ramona only ever seemed to remember him wistfully, lovingly, as if she had forgotten the part where he walked out.

  As if he’d never done anything wrong. That, more than anything, made Aurora angry.

  But she had grown a talent for holding her tongue when those feelings arose. Ramona knew it made her daughter mad to talk about her absent husband, so she never did anymore.

  Aurora sighed as she gulped down her cereal. “Well, much more of this, and I’ll be late to work.” She leaned over and kissed her mother’s forehead, then retreated to the sink to wash her dishes.

  There wasn’t much threat of Aurora being late; it was only a twenty minute commute (if she caught the train) and she still had another thirty minutes to get to the station. She walked into the bathroom and ran a shower; the water a slightly brown at first, and as she waited for it to clear, Aurora caught sight of herself in the mirror.

  The first thing she noticed was the dark circles under her eyes. Again. She’d often wondered if insomnia was genetic, and if she, too, might end up sitting up in a kitchen chair all night. For all that she worked, Aurora didn’t seem to sleep enough, and today her face showed it. Her dusky skin was winter pale, and her speckled hazel eyes gleamed. Those must have come from her European father. Ramona Potier had dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and Aurora really only took after her in bone and facial structure.

  If she had her own way, Aurora would have been content to get her father’s hair, too, but since hers was curly and thick, she worked conditioner through it before stepping into the water.

  Without meaning to, Aurora started to imagine all over again what he had looked like. She tried to work backwards, taking her features and subtracting everything that was Ramona. What was left? The remains of some Louisiana man who her mother had fallen in love with? Aurora could never finish the picture. It kept falling apart every time she got close to his face.

  Chapter 2

  It was a beautiful morning—at least, as beautiful as it ever got in New York. In February, the air was bitter cold and sharp as razors going down Aurora’s throat to her lungs when she drew in a breath, fluming out in puffs of icy white when she exhaled. She was bundled in layers, leggings under her jeans, two sweaters under her coat, and thick socks under her boots. She still felt the cold grasping for her skin through all the clothes.

  Five days a week, she went to Mme. Moreau’s boutique downtown to sell designer clothes. That simple sentence isn’t quite the whole of the story; it’s a simplified explanation. What Aurora did at the boutique more resembled a finely-planned performance than simple customer service. There were five girls employed at the store, and for the six hours that the boutique was open, Monday through Friday, all five showed up to fawn in synchronized perfection over each client, each appointment in the book. Moreau’s was a highly exclusive, much coveted brand. Aurora couldn’t explain why; apart from being French and snobby, Madame Moreau was little different than any other woman, her clothes elegant, but not particularly more so than any other store.

  But it paid well, and Aurora was the senior employee, so it was worth her time to stay. After her most recent raise from Moreau six months past, she’d been able to drop her third job at Wal-Mart. If only for this reason, Aurora was thankful enough to stay loyal.

  The raise had come when Aurora became the senior employee, when her predecessor had married and bowed out of working for Moreau. With it came certain perks, of course, foremost being that Aurora possessed a key to the store. She used it now, as she climbed into the elevator and had to unlock the 24th floor, which belonged to Moreau. The Madame wasn’t here yet, which was strange for a Friday. Usually she got here early to make sure everything was in order to be wrapped up for the weekend. No flimsy excuses or late orders from this shop.

  Strange, but not unheard of. Aurora put it from her mind as she walked in to the boutique, lit softly in early morning’s colors from the naked windows.

  The cleaning ladies were still there when Aurora walked in, and she greeted them warmly; it had been the same service for her entire career at Moreau’s that came in just before opening to see to it that the place was spotless. They did excellent work, or else Madame Moreau would have replaced them years ago.

  The boutique opened at ten, and stayed open until four. This was not accidental. Moreau believed part of her image was excluding customers that worked, that had other places to be at two in the afternoon other than spending money. Aurora tried not to think about that; it always inflated a hot little balloon of fury in her chest, and it was better to just flatten that down. This was her main job, the biggest source of her income. No need to blow it over social injustice, especially not for someone as petty as Moreau.

  Instead, she let herself in to the back room, into the cavernous back hall full of racks and hanging clothes bags, all their inventory. Only a few displays were set out on the actual floor; this was why all five employees were there every day, to run back and forth with possible outfits for their guests. It was a little exhausting at times, Aurora had to admit, but there were worse ways to make a living than pandering to spoiled housewives and mistresses.

  Part of the back room was a sort of locker room for the girls who worked there. Good pay or not, none of them made half enough to afford to dress in Moreau’s styles themselves. One of her dresses could pay Aurora’s rent for half a year! She could never afford it on her own. But neither could they show up to work dressed in something they bought at Target, so Moreau had a few styles set aside for the girls to wear as their uniforms. Nothing too showy. Just expensive enough to impress the clientele.

  Being the first there, Aurora had her choice of the lot. New outfits always came in on Friday, to be prepared for arrangement on the show floor over the weekend. The sales girls got a crack at them first, and t
oday several new dresses waited on the ‘borrow’ rack, still in their fresh plastic sheaths.

  Aurora had never told anyone this—not that she really had anyone to tell—but her work outfits were one of the biggest perks of this job. The other girls were silly and twittery, and Aurora hated to agree with them on anything; when they oohed and aahed about Moreau’s fashions, Aurora tried to pretend she was indifferent, focused on work. But here alone, she could admit to herself. She got an odd and fluttery thrill to dress up in pretty clothes, no matter how stupidly expensive they were.

  Today she picked out an olive green dress, which matched her hazel-green eyes wonderfully. It was dripping with floral embroidery and tiny precious stones. Probably Swarovski crystals, glimmering from the centers of tiny wildflowers. The dress came with a short cap-sleeve jacket, a shade and a half darker than the dress, that curved around Aurora’s back and shoulders perfectly. Maybe that was why these clothes were so expensive. They always seemed to fit as if designed just for the wearer.

  Aurora looked over her choice in the mirror and was not disappointed. She was skinny (overwork and poverty will do that to a body) but still strong and young and the dress made her look much more refined than she ever felt on her own. Moreau believed clothes were the key to success; there were times when Aurora had to agree with her, at least privately.

  To finish the outfit, there was a vanity and a jewelry box of baubles to pair with the work uniforms. No one had ever been dumb enough to try and steal from the jewelry cache in a long time. Moreau was like a falcon, or a hound dog. She knew how to read people, and she knew how to sniff out a lie. Aurora had never even considered stealing from her, although some of the pieces to borrow cost much more than the clothes.