Invaders_Hotbloods 7

by Bella Forrest

  When I said I wasn’t like most people, I wasn’t kidding. Empathy wasn’t my only unique… skill. Telekinesis, over which I had better control, was the second one—though I’d yet to understand its extent, and it often depended on my anger to perform properly. Straight-up weirdo.

  It felt as if I had these invisible tendrils extending from my fingers, and I had to focus them on an object in order for me to take hold of and then move it.

  The dealer had made me angry enough to focus and take control of that chair, twenty feet away from me. It slid across the room and tripped the guy. He stumbled and landed flat on his face, with a painfully heavy thud. I had a feeling he’d at least sprained something in the process.

  Atta girl!

  I was still working on improving my telekinetic ability, but I’d managed to move an object to a predetermined location without a fuss. Compared to my earliest attempts when it first began to manifest, around the age of seven, I dared to call it progress.

  Malcolm ran over to the dealer and pushed his knee into his back, prompting him to cry out from the pain. Two other bouncers rushed in from the bar and got the dealer up on his feet.

  “Take him to the back room, too,” Malcolm barked, annoyed whenever he was forced to get athletic in his Armani suit. “We’re pressing charges!”

  They both nodded and dragged him away. They passed by me, and there it was again: the sheer terror. This guy had been in prison before. He clearly didn’t want to go back, but hey, you commit crimes, you pay the price.

  Malcolm got up as I collected what was left of my poker chips and bid my farewell to the other three players. Two waitresses and a new dealer quickly took over, inviting the players to resume their seats and offering plenty of drinks on the house. It was the least the casino could do, after one of its crooked dealers had shoved three of its clients away from the table.

  “How did you do that?” Malcolm reached my side as I walked over to the cashier.

  “Do what?”

  It was time to come up with good excuses for my inhuman abilities. Fortunately, I had an entire arsenal of perfectly reasonable explanations. Malcolm was very fond of me, but he was also very curious. This wasn’t the first time he’d caught a whiff. My “intuition” had been a subject of his fascination from the day he’d hired me.

  “The cards, Harley,” he replied, slightly irritated. “How did you do that?”

  “Dude.” I chuckled. “I rigged the drawers. It’s an old-school carnival trick. I knew he was dirty.”

  Malcolm frowned. “How did you know that? How did you spot him?”

  Ugh, digging deeper.

  Malcolm had worked as a police officer for ten years before switching to private security. His detective skills had yet to simmer down.

  “I noticed some signs, Malcolm. Nothing special, trust me,” I said. “People are… well, they’re people. Their emotions betray them, and you, my friend, are a very intimidating presence. You made the guy nervous; I could tell before we opened the doors tonight. So, I employed some good ol’ mechanical tricks with the drawers, in case he tried to make a run for it. Which he obviously did.”

  “And the couple? How did you spot them this time?”

  “It’s my job, Malcolm. I’m not telling you my secrets.” I giggled. “It’s how I earn my keep.”

  He smirked. “And the chair?”

  He’d saved the best for last. I let out a long, tortured sigh as I returned the chips to the cashier with a friendly wink. She smiled briefly and handed over a receipt, which I slipped into Malcolm’s chest pocket.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied dryly. “Not my fault that boy has two left legs and can’t even run without tripping over random objects.”

  “The chair slid and—” He stopped himself, then took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  He was frustrated. We’d been doing the same dance for three months now, since I’d started working here. I caught the cheaters. Sometimes I had to employ my unorthodox methods to stop them from fleeing. Then I had to explain the unexplainable. We’d both then shrug, I’d get paid, and we’d part ways until my next shift.

  The casino didn’t like drilling for information. As long as the cheaters were caught, and I got my bonuses, we were all happy. But Malcolm’s detective intuition made it hard for him to let go.

  “So, what’s my bonus for tonight?” I grinned, eager to change the subject to what really interested me.

  “Five percent, as usual.” Malcolm shook his head, giving me the half-smile that labeled me as “incorrigible.”

  “Oh, that’s…” I quickly did the math in my head and reached three zeroes, in the upper half of a decimal. “Hell, yes! I get to give my Daisy a new paintjob. Maybe a new exhaust, too!”

  After a life spent with a handful of personal belongings stashed in a black garbage bag as I was carted off from one foster family to another, I’d recently acquired a car—a raucous, black 1967 Ford Mustang in need of improvements and lots of love. I’d named her Daisy, and she was my first purchase as a responsible adult. She was also the birthday present I gave myself upon turning nineteen. Naturally, I was eager to invest a little bit of cash in her upkeep, whenever I got the chance, since the casino job paid pretty well. Most of the bonuses went right into my future college fund. But I did spoil myself and Daisy once in a while. Regardless of what others said, adulting was fun.

  Malcolm smiled softly. “I’ve got a good mechanic I can recommend, if you’re interested.”

  I was filled with affection, a gentle warmth I’d always imagined felt like fatherly love. I’d only felt it once before, with Mr. Smith, from my last foster family—the only decent home I was put in. Malcolm was, indeed, very fond of me. I thought of a warm breakfast on the kitchen table whenever he looked at me that way, reminding me of Mr. Smith’s maple syrup pancakes and freshly squeezed orange juice.

  “That would be great, thanks!” I beamed at him, then remembered the cucumbers. “Just so you know, the couple you guys lifted—they know each other. They didn’t think anyone would notice, but you know me. I think they’re quite seasoned, too. You might want the cops to check with Nevada casinos.”

  “Good point. Thank you, Harley.” Malcolm gave me an appreciative nod. “They’ll get banned, anyway, and we’ll put out a nationwide alert on their profiles. They didn’t show up in our system when they came in.”

  “Ah, yes, facial recognition cameras. I keep forgetting we have those,” I muttered, as I caught movement at the corner of my eye, then above us. Looking up, the flicker of a shadow in a corner by another vent made me still. I could’ve sworn I’d just seen that long black tail again…

  I must be tired.

  “They’ll get arrested, too,” Malcolm replied.

  I shrugged. “Hey, man, that’s what happens when you don’t keep your nose clean.”

  In retrospect, I could’ve ended up a lot worse, as a foster kid. We were the discarded souls that nobody wanted. Most of the kids in the system ended up in juvenile detention centers and, later on, prison.

  It wasn’t really their fault. Nobody chooses to be a criminal at the age of twelve. Your environment pushes you. The lack of involvement from the authorities when you signal abuse from one foster parent, then another—it makes you lose any semblance of hope. The system doesn’t believe you, and you grow up distrusting the system in return.

  Nobody listens to you. Nobody cares. You do what you can to get by. That’s how it usually goes down for us kids with black garbage bags.

  I did good for myself. I stayed out of serious trouble, despite my often-troublesome abilities. Of course, the other foster kids didn’t grow up with a note from their dad, telling them to “stay smart” and “stay safe.”

  As miserable as I was without parents to call my own, I still felt a little lucky to have had that handful of words to guide me.

  It was better than nothing.

  Chapter 3
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  Shortly after the incident, my shift was over, but the night was far from coming to an end, with about a dozen customers left at the poker and blackjack tables. Only one of them was walking away with more money than he’d come in with. The others filled me with a sense of disappointment, and, at the same time, hope—the idea that they’d try again next time, and maybe beat the house.

  I wasn’t a gambler myself, nor would I ever indulge. Given my ability as an empath, I’d already experienced the thrilling highs and the devastating lows from all the players I’d had to sit next to during my work hours. I could never get over the pit in my stomach after watching someone throw twenty grand right into the dealer’s hands. Loss was one emotion I was already familiar with, and it wasn’t something I needed more of. On top of that, at nineteen, I wasn’t even legally allowed to gamble. Working there and pretending to be a gambler, however, was a different story, thanks to several legal loopholes that Malcolm had taken advantage of, in order to get me on his crew.

  “You have to let me set you up on a date with Daniel,” Malcolm said with a smile, watching me as I collected my clutch from the top of the bar, then put my leather jacket on. The jacket was one of my favorites, and I rarely parted with it, especially given these cool early spring nights we’d been having lately.

  “Now, why would you do that to your own son, Malcolm?” I grinned.

  “He’s nineteen; you’re nineteen. You’re a good girl; he’s a good boy. You’re lonely, and Daniel sure could use a female presence in his life. I could go on,” Malcolm replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

  His wife died when Daniel was only five, so it had been just the two of them for a very long time. Shortly after he became a single dad, Malcolm put the police badge away and started working in security—a slightly safer line of work, since he couldn’t put his life at such risk anymore. Not while raising a son, anyway.

  Malcolm was being truthful, though. Daniel was a good guy, and I’d met him a couple of months earlier. I’d noticed the sweet looks he gave me, but I didn’t think anything of it until Malcolm first suggested a date. This was his third attempt, and it was going to be a no, once again. Daniel was sweet and all, but he just wasn’t my type. Not that I actually knew what my “type” was, but something inside me just didn’t click with Daniel.

  Besides, being in a relationship meant I’d have to eventually explain my weird powers, and I was nowhere near ready to have that conversation with anybody.

  “Sorry, Malcolm, but it’s still a no for me,” I replied gently, careful not to let him down too hard. “I mean, I’m happy to go out with the both of you, since there’s so much of San Diego I’ve yet to experience, despite growing up here, and you guys know all the good burger joints, apparently… But I’m not getting into the dating game anytime soon, and I’d hate to string Daniel along.”

  “Can’t blame an old man for trying.” Malcolm shook his head slowly as the shadow of a smile passed over his face.

  “See you in a couple of days.” I winked, waved him goodbye, and walked out through the back door. I’d parked my Daisy in the far-right corner of the employees’ parking lot, away from the others, and I could see her from where I was standing as I searched for my keys at the bottom of the clutch. Customers parked their cars on the other side of the building.

  The casino door closed behind me with a loud click, and my fingers finally clasped around my keys. My stomach seemed a bit upset, as if there was a little monster inside, gnawing away at it. Leftover pizza for dinner it is, then.

  There were a few other cars in the lot, besides my Mustang, including Malcolm’s black sedan. I walked over to mine, welcoming the cool darkness of midnight. The stars glimmered overhead, in the company of the giant pearl commonly referred to as the moon. I’d always been captivated by it, especially when it was so big and glowing so close to the Earth, though I knew its size was an optical illusion, the horizon tricking my mind and warping reality.

  A shadow darted across the asphalt before me, but vanished somewhere behind my Daisy before I could see what it was. I ignored the sudden chill and kept moving, keys in hand, eager to sink into a hot bath at home.

  “No, please!” a man yelped somewhere farther down on 55th Street, just where the parking lot ended in its shoddy wooden fence.

  My heart hammered in my chest. I walked faster, my stilettos clicking across the asphalt as I reached my car.

  “What… What are you?” The same voice grew louder, and I stilled, crippled with horror. But it wasn’t my horror—it was his.

  I squinted into the darkness, but couldn’t find the man who had cried out.

  Maybe he was just some dude who’d snorted too much of that “good stuff.” But his emotions were far too powerful. I’d experienced drug-induced panics from other people, and none were as intense as the thick sheet of ice constricting my heart in this moment. Besides, my instincts were already telling me to at least find out what was going on, to see if I should call the police.

  I walked around the car, toward the fence. I looked down 55th Street, both ways, but there was nothing to see, other than dim orange lights cast by distant streetlamps.

  “What the…” I muttered, catching movement somewhere to my right, just where the small apartment blocks started rising, lined with palm trees.

  The man whose voice I’d just heard emerged from the shadows. He tripped and fell over, just twenty feet away from me and right in the middle of the street. Fear crashed into me in a second, much more brutal wave, paralyzing my muscles. Oh, man, he’s scared out of his mind.

  “Get away from me!” he shrieked, then stumbled to his feet and started running again.

  “Dude, are you okay?” I called out as he got closer.

  He was pale, paper-white almost, his face drenched in sweat and his crisp, Friday-night-out suit covered in dirt and cuts. He was pretty roughed up, his lip split and a purplish bruise blaring around his left eye. He stared at me for a second, then exhaled sharply with genuine relief. I felt hope bursting inside my chest—his, as he hoped I would save him. From what, though?

  “No, I’m not! You’ve got to help me, call the police!” he said, his voice trembling. “I can’t see… I can’t see who it is… or what it is, but it just won’t let me be!”

  “Um, wait, what?” I got confused, fast.

  My initial thought of a drug-related trip gone horribly wrong crossed my mind, until a shadow flickered across the ground. I looked down and saw the long black tail I’d seen earlier inside the casino. It lashed out from the shadows to my right, and coiled its tip around the man’s ankles, sweeping him off his feet.

  “What—” I didn’t manage to finish my thought. The man fell hard on his back, screaming as he got dragged away. “No, no, no!”

  I dropped my keys and clutch and jumped over the fence, my left heel slipping. Not the best night for stilettos, clearly.

  “HELP!” he cried out.

  I ran after him, slightly limping from the pain budding in my left ankle. His emotions were toying with my senses, and it took considerable mental effort for me to push it all down so I could focus on what was happening as I followed him.

  Whatever had latched onto his ankles had a surprisingly long tail. Snake, maybe? No, what kind of snake can do that?

  A large figure took form in the semi-darkness ahead, with light from a streetlamp offering me a better view. My stomach churned, then wriggled itself into a small, painful ball, as I came to a halt. This was not a snake. Nor was it a man.

  Whatever this is, it’s not human.

  “Oh, God, help me, please!” the man bellowed, desperately scraping at the asphalt beneath him as he was dragged backward.

  I tried to catch his hands, his fingers bloodied by his attempts to get away, but I missed him by inches. And then a bloodcurdling growl made me freeze in place. The creature taunting the guy came into view, its big black eyes fixed on me.

  As it noticed me, it stopped dragging the man, enough for him to l
ook over his shoulder and cry with exasperation. “What the hell is going on? What’s happening to me?”

  “You… You can’t see it?” I murmured, staring at the horrible beast standing before me.

  “See what? There’s nothing! I don’t… How is… Why is this happening?”

  It hit me then that the man couldn’t see the creature taunting him. I figured it was better that way. He was spared the visual horror.

  I was standing face-to-face with some kind of… monster. It was huge, at least eight feet tall, with bulging, pitch-black eyes and two long, twisted horns that sprouted from either side of a crooked, asymmetrical head. Thick strings of drool clung to a pair of enormous fangs, and razor-sharp claws protruded from the ends of its lanky, ape-like limbs. Its skin was leathery, a dark and dirty shade of gray, with spikes erupting from behind its neck. A stringy tail trailed behind it, and, judging by the giant bat wings extending from its back, this thing could also fly.

  It growled again, this time louder, as it continued glaring at me.

  “What… are you?” I gasped, my own fear taking hold of my bones and joints, pushing my instincts into survival mode.

  “You can see… it?” The man gawked at me, blood trickling from his temple.

  “Yeah, but, trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  It was a weirdly freakish hybrid, a cross between an ape, an overgrown lizard, and a bat, and it was looking way too intensely at me. Claws as big and as sharp as the monster’s took hold of my heart as it let go of the man and smacked him over the back of his head with its tail.

  He lost consciousness, and the monster moved over his body, its shadow nearly swallowing him. Every nerve in my body screamed for me to run. But I couldn’t leave the man to die. If our situations were reversed, I knew I’d want someone looking out for me.

  Given the disgusting amount of drool, it was dinnertime for the beast, and the dude was its main course.

  “Hey! Leave him alone!” I shouted.

  Whatever this creature was, it wasn’t interested in meaningful conversation. The monster sneered at me, then shifted its focus back to the guy, its jaws parting with anticipation as it lowered its head for a bite. My fight-or-flight instinct kicked itself into fight mode.