As I thumbed through the photos I noticed a pattern. The first victim lay in a heap. Blood and bone dust pooled around her. Whoever, or whatever, killed her possessed incredible strength. Her bones were crushed inside her body, and identification proved difficult, but enough remained for me to see the pattern. Long, jet-black hair spread around her body soaking up the blood, and her skin resembled porcelain. Death had robbed her youthful eyes of their vibrancy, but I detected a hint of electric blue. The second victim hung in her doorway nailed to the wall. Less blood decorated the scene, but the crime itself matched the first in brutality. Long, jet-black hair concealed her face, porcelain skin shone through the streaks of crimson, and her eyes matched the first victim. The final victim lay in a bed of rose vines. Sharp thorns dug into her porcelain skin and caused long trails of dried blood to streak her flesh. Her jet-black hair twisted into the vines as though the vines themselves performed the twisting, and her electric blue eyes remained wide with terror. Each woman resembled me to a T.
I closed the folder and pushed it back to the center of the bar.
“Kassie, I need—”
I held my hand up. “ Don't call me ‘Kassie.’”
He clasped his hands together and leaned on his elbows. His forehead rested against his knuckles and he rubbed the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. “Three so far. No leads. No evidence. Nothing.”
Had he not seen the pattern? He must have. I turned my hand over and watched my fingers move as I rubbed the leather fingertips together. I needed one touch; one touch and a butt load of aspirin. If he had a personal belonging, and I knew he did, I would need one touch and I'd know everything they ever knew. The rules were simple, and he understood them as well as I did. He raised me, and we learned them together. For some reason I could touch an item and assimilate the knowledge and memories of the previous owner, as long as the item still belonged to them. If an item had been willed to someone, or if someone claimed it as their own, it became their property and whatever force powered my ability ceased to work.
We sat in silence. The micro-hydro hummed.
Binks leapt onto the bar and stretched his long body, sticking his ass and raccoon tail into the air. His shiny black coat shimmered in the dull glow of hydro-powered lights. He lay down and curled his legs under his body so he could be good and comfy while he watched me suffer. The mammoth fur ball had few pleasures in life. My suffering pleased him more than I cared to imagine.
I passed him a quick, spiteful gaze and tugged the long brown glove off my right hand. “Hand it over.”
Markus looked up from his hands and the strain in those dark chestnut eyes confirmed my suspicions. He had seen the pattern. “Are you sure?”
No. “Yes.” I motioned for him to hand over the item he brought. “Let's get this over with. Some of us need sleep.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag. It contained a regular old ink pen. He dumped it on the bar.
His item of choice left me impressed yet bored to tears. A smart move—drab, but smart. No one willed ink pens to anyone, at least not run of the mill ink pens, and as long as she used it last it still belonged to her. Tools worked like that. If you claimed a tool you had to use it before it became yours. Still, looking at the ordinary pen filled me with dread. The woman who last used it had died in a horrible fashion. It didn't matter which victim it belonged to. They each died badly. I wasn't going to enjoy what I saw. Please don't be the first victim. Please don't be the first victim. Please don't be the first victim. “Well, nothing ventured nothing gained, right?” I grabbed the pen.
If you've ever stuck yourself with a pin, go ahead and imagine the sharp quick pain. Now multiply it by somewhere near a billion, and then imagine that pin prick was in your eye, and you'll be close to how it feels to have your head flooded with the knowledge and memories of a whole other person. I saw her life—the small details and the large: her childhood, high school, college, meeting her husband, having their two beautiful children, and the countless emotions that came along with the events of her life. The whole ride took less than thirty seconds, but thirty seconds provided ample time to imagine the horror show at the end. Too late to worry about it.
I sat...she sat...she sat on a fluffy beige couch knitting a sweater for her oldest son, only three years old, when a knock came at the door.
Who could that be, I wondered...she wondered....she wondered. With a knitting needle in hand she approached the door and peered through the peephole. No one there. Positive I heard a knock, I left the chain on and cracked the door. Darkness painted the apartment hallway, and I noted how odd that was...she noted....she noted. “Hello? Who's out there? Tony, you better not be screwing with me.”
A thunderous blow struck the door and something massive splintered it from the frame. I jumped back, but the door pinned me and pushed me to the floor. A sharp pain seared my hip and warm blood ran down my leg. I kicked my feet, knocking the door away, rolled onto my stomach, and clawed my way to my knees.
Slimy scaled talons wrapped around my ankle and squeezed tight enough to crush the bone. As the nerves in my ankle cried in agony my brain told me to rescue them. So I fell down and tried to wrench my ankle free. “Let go of me!”
The thing locked on my ankle, heaving and jerking me off the ground. The world spun around for a brief moment before I slammed head first into the top of the doorframe. Sparks exploded in my eyes and I fell.
A dark, lithe figure sprung across the room, pinned me to the wall, and proceeded to slam a knitting needle into my wrist, pinning it to the wall. The figure disappeared, and before I could process its absence, it returned and drove a piece of shattered doorframe into my other wrist. Time after time it left and returned to nail me to the wall with more objects—scissors, knives, a nail file…
Numbness took over my body to the point that I couldn't even feel the warm blood running down it. I tried to lift my head...she tried...she tried...she tried to lift her head...
“You're sssoul for him,” a coarse voice hissed, “Little Hauthe.”
I snapped back into reality, kicking and screaming.
Markus held me. “It's okay.” He petted my head and cradled my freezing body in his strong dark arms. “It's okay.” I'd spent many nights asleep with my head on his chest in the early years of the Great Freeze, too young to take care of myself. “Shh.” He radiated warmth, and warmth had been in short supply for a long time.
* * * * *
“What'd you see?”
Before the Freeze I woke up one night with a spider crawling on my face, and I reacted appropriately. I swatted it away, lunged out of bed, and then refused to sleep in that bed for a whole week. That is how I know I'm afraid. I take how I'm feeling, and I compare it to that moment. In light of recent revelations that moment seemed quaint.
Women were dying left and right, they looked like me, their killer wasn’t human, and I knew why. Cassandra Hauthe, the woman whose life and death I'd experienced, confirmed it, and I didn't need the folder to tell me the other two had similar names. I knew it in my bones. “Hauthe,” an old word, means “Hawthorn.”
I turned my eyes to the door of my house and my mind showed me a massive dark shape. It slammed into the door and shattered it to pieces. My blood coated the wall and floor around it. I shuddered, and then squared my jaw.
As far as choices go mine were limited. Limited to one. Find the bastard before he finds me, and then take him out. I looked at Markus. “Too much, and not enough.”
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Side Stories - The Linsey Ashguard Books: A Dystopian Sci-Fi Fantasy (War of the Tarot Extended Universe Book 1) Page 6
