by Matt Cowper
“Hm.” Sergei stared into Deathrain's eyes. Up close, the hunter looked truly ferocious: a vicious scar slashed down his cheek, his left ear had been almost completely sliced off, and his entire body practically pulsed with barely-restrained, lethal energy.
Sergei's stare unnerved her even more than Kain's. Kain was cruel and power-mad, but he projected a veneer of confidence and charm to hide his depravity. Sergei cared little for facades: he wanted to hunt, and he didn't care who noticed the wildness in his twitching eyes.
“She's off limits, Sergei,” Kain said. He too had noticed that Sergei was thinking of adding Deathrain to his trophy collection as well as Auspice. “You knew this going in, and I just reminded you we have business to attend to. I'll give you Auspice as a bonus for a job well done – but you won't have Deathrain.”
The hunter's lips curled into a sneer, and for a beat Deathrain thought he'd finally rebel. But with a noticeable effort, Sergei controlled himself.
“Fine,” he said again. He pulled out a knife at least a foot long, its serrated edge promising doom. Knowing Sergei, the knife was hand-made and sharpened to perfection. It would cut through flesh and bone easily.
With a yell, Deathrain kicked out, trying to knock the blade from Sergei's grip. The hunter simply jumped to the side, and Kain grabbed her other arm, twisting it until it too was broken.
Now with two broken arms, and in the grip of Kain, she could do little besides flail. Soon Kain put a stop to that as well, slamming her into the ground until she was no longer able to struggle.
“You're strong, Deathrain,” Sergei said. “I wish this had ended otherwise, but Kain is adamant you die now.”
“I am,” Kain said sharply. “Now quit fantasizing about hunting her. Cut off her head so we can close the chapter on this troublesome incident.”
Sergei bent over her, moving the knife to her throat. It was a guillotine, about to end her if she didn't think of a way out.
“Sergei, Kain is playing you,” she said. “I know you. You're not a lapdog. You're independent. You––”
Kain's fist crashed into her mouth, knocking a few teeth loose and causing her to spit out what seemed like a gallon of blood.
“Be quiet,” Kain said, “or I will make you be quiet, perhaps by shattering your jaw. The die is cast, Deathrain. Accept your fate.”
Kain still had her arms locked up. Her concussion had healed, but him slamming her into the ground had again crushed internal organs and bones, making it difficult to move.
She needed to do something unexpected – but what? Most of her weapons were disabled, Kain's hold was too strong, and Sergei was now pressing the knife against her neck.
But then the knife stopped. Sergei reached behind her head and unzipped her mask. With a quick tug, he pulled it off. The cool air hit her bare skin, and she felt her sweaty hair rustle in the slight breeze.
“I always look upon the face of my quarry before I kill them,” Sergei said. “To see how they behave, as they expire. I am interested to see how you behave, Deathrain.” He touched her cheek. “You are...experienced, like me, but still rather...pretty.”
“Sergei.” Kain's voice reminded Deathrain of an abyss.
“I know what I must do, Kain,” Sergei growled. He pressed the knife into her skin, drawing blood.
Deathrain jerked upwards, slamming her forehead into Sergei's nose. The hunter yelled in surprise, and twisted a few feet away. Her movement had caused the knife to cut deep into her neck. Blood spurted onto her shirt and Sergei's boots. For a normal person, the wound would be mortal – but she was no normal person. Her healing factor was already closing the gash.
“Dammit, Sergei––” Kain shouted.
Screaming in anguish and fury, Deathrain pushed herself to her feet, then flipped backwards. Kain still held her arms, and her jump twisted them at angles that the human body was never meant to contort into. Her arms now looked like some odd zig-zag prostheses that some mad scientist had attached to her shoulders.
In his shock at her desperate, self-harming gambit, Kain had let go of her – exactly as she hoped.
Sergei was just as surprised as Kain. The fact that the knife was still embedded in her neck surely added to the effect. But Deathrain wasn't going to stand around and admire the reaction she'd caused. With a quick glance at Auspice, she ran.
She needed to save the superhero, but restarting the fight with those two in the condition she was in would result in the same outcome as before: with her pinned by Kain and with Sergei about to saw off her head.
If she could only heal at least some of her wounds – but then something slammed into her back, puncturing a lung. Then another object, puncturing her other lung. Her arms were still useless, but she knew Sergei had just shot her with two arrows.
The fish processing plant loomed ahead. If she could get there, she could find a place to hide – and she could find weapons. There were surely knives, gaffs, hooks, and other fishing-industry equipment that would serve nicely.
She zigged and zagged, hoping to make herself a hard target. But Sergei's aim was true: two more arrows cut into her, this time in her lower back.
Still she ran. It was only pain...she'd rip out the arrows as soon as she was inside...but then two more arrows exploded into her calves. Without fully-functioning legs, she couldn't run, and she found herself spinning out of control.
She crashed into a dock piling, then went tumbling into the cold water of Jameson Bay. Grimy water rushed down her throat. Drowning...a terrible way to die....
That is, if she could be killed by drowning. She'd been in tough spots before, but never put it to the ultimate test. And she wasn't planning on doing so now. Forcing her injured legs to pump, she moved away from the docks, through black water, her kicks stirring up dirt from the bottom.
Another arrow hit her, this time right in the back of the neck. She felt...nothing. The arrow had paralyzed her. She drifted down to the bottom, settling softly into the sand.
What a shot...to hit her underwater...Sergei must've used a special scope, or maybe his senses were acute enough that he could hear or see her.
The specifics didn't matter. Either she'd drown, or they'd drag her out of here and decapitate her like they'd planned.
She closed her eyes, readying herself for oblivion. It had been a hard life, and she'd done plenty of terrible things, but at the end she'd tried to redeem herself.
God, how she'd tried....
Chapter Ten
A bright light shone on her. It was warm, tantalizing. What could it be? Some mystical shrine in the afterlife? The gates of heaven? A fiery mountain in hell? Deathrain knew hell was her likeliest destination after exiting the mortal plane, but then again, they said the Lord worked in mysterious ways....
Then a loud, irritating noise rattled her ears. What was...no, she knew: the blaring horn of a ship. That light was the sun. She was still alive, still somewhere near Jameson Bay.
Water exploded out of her mouth, jolting her to a sitting position. Hacking, she drained the bay water from her inflamed lungs. Only after she was done did she open her eyes.
Yes – there was Jameson Bay before her, ships sliding to and fro, fishing boats zipping by, Ironrock Island sitting there in the distance. Overhead, seagulls wheeled and screeched and laughed.
Something hard was burrowing into her side – a rock, stained with gull shit, its bottom portion covered in algae. Tiny waves lapped at her feet, and crabs cautiously moved across the pebbled shore.
She was on a rocky beach, to the west of Z City, just outside the city limits. The sleek towers of Midtown glimmered far away, and closer there were the mostly derelict buildings of Bootheel.
She tried to pinpoint where she'd fought Kain and Sergei, but couldn't. No matter where exactly she'd fallen into the bay, she knew she'd drifted through the waters for quite a distance, unconscious, her lungs filled with water, the cold water sapping her body's strength.
“And you're still alive,” s
he rasped. “Guess I shouldn't worry too much about drowning after all....”
She tried to stand up, but her legs felt strange. Of course: she hadn't removed any of the arrows before she passed out.
Her arms had healed, however. She remembered how grotesque they'd looked after she'd escaped Kain's grasp. She ran her hands through her mangy hair just to make sure her limbs were fully functioning.
Her hair! Her mask was gone! Yes, she remembered now: Sergei had removed it, said he wanted to look into her true face as she died.
But if they'd seen her face...then....
With a grunt, she snapped off the tips of the arrows in her legs, then slid the shafts through. She repeated this process until all the arrows sticking from her body had been removed and tossed into the bay.
It had hurt, but the wounds were already closing. Deathrain still felt a weakness pressing against her, though, probably aftereffects from the whole ordeal. But she gritted her teeth and climbed over the rocks, looking for a trail or road she could follow back to Z City.
If they knew what she looked like, they could figure out she was Emily Bell. Sergei especially was an expert tracker, and was rumored to have a photographic memory.
She'd of course tried to separate Emily Bell from Deathrain, but Emily needed a photo ID, Emily had been seen out in the world by hundreds of people, and by cameras of all types.
Searching through databases and closed-circuit camera footage for her image would take time, but Kain surely had enough resources to expedite the process.
The people in Emily Bell's life weren't safe. But could Deathrain get there in time to protect them?
Chapter Eleven
Deathrain hustled up the stairs, the pistol concealed in the pocket of her sweatpants. Her hours-long “swim” in Jameson Bay had ruined the rest of her weapons; this was the best she could do on short notice.
The pistol had been swiped from a beat cop she'd encountered at the edge of Bootheel. The cop had approached the soaking, angry-looking woman warily, and gotten a chop to the throat and his head slammed into a wall.
Deathrain hadn't relished the idea of attacking an innocent – strange how her thoughts on that had changed – but she needed a gun quickly, and short of robbing a pawn shop, that had been her best option.
Next she'd swiped new clothes from one of the large bins of donated goods sitting at the back of a charity thrift store. The staff had noticed her theft, but she'd been long gone before they could do anything about it.
Now in dry – albeit ill-fitting clothes – she'd been able to more easily move through the city. Still, for all her speed, she could only run so quickly – and there was that weakness that wouldn't go away, that feeling that pressed against her like a strong wind.
She'd finally made it here, back to her apartment building. Amped up. Ready to take on both Kain and Sergei, and a dozen more superhumans if needed. She wouldn't be caught again, wouldn't be tossed around like a rag doll or perforated like an archery target.
But she'd been unconscious for hours. Those two sadists had a massive head start. They could've already come and gone....
No. She couldn't think about that. She had to hope they hadn't connected Deathrain to Emily Bell – or if they had, that they wouldn't go after Emily's acquaintances. Perhaps her “drowning” had convinced them that she was done for, that no one else needed to be hurt.
But the more she thought about it, the more she wondered why she was still alive. Drowning wasn't her concern; she'd proven she could survive that. Sergei was her concern.
The man was a master huntsman. If he'd wanted to find her nearly-dead body, he could have.
But perhaps something stopped him. Perhaps he stopped himself, convinced Kain that Deathrain was surely dead for good, and there was no point in tooling around Jameson Bay looking for her corpse.
But why would he do that? So she would escape and recover? So he could then hunt her?
She recalled his argument with Kain: he'd wanted to square off against her, just like he wanted to square off against Auspice. Kain had denied him his urge. But if Sergei had deceived Kain....
She pushed those speculations aside. First order of business: verify that Vera and her neighbors hadn't been harmed.
As she turned the corner and spotted her apartment, she nearly smacked her head in frustration. She'd promised Vera and Nolan she'd meet them yesterday, but then she'd gone on her little “adventure.” They'd both be disappointed with her....
Fumbling with her key, she opened her apartment door, planning to make sure nothing was amiss and then check on everyone else.
But the scene inside caused a coldness to hit her, a coldness that made the waters of Jameson Bay feel like a hot shower.
Vera and Nolan were sitting on her couch, like they were engrossed in the television's blank screen, for some reason. But their eyes saw nothing, and they were as still as monuments.
Dead.
Shutting the door behind her, Deathrain walked towards them. She knew she should be more careful; this could be an ambush. But the stillness extended beyond the two dead bodies. There was an emptiness, a finality here. She knew intuitively she was the only living person within this apartment.
When she leaned over the bodies, she saw the cause of death: throats cut. Sergei's handiwork, most likely. Even set them up on the couch, neat as can be. There were a few blood spatters on the couch, carpet, and coffee table, but otherwise the apartment was spic and span.
“Nolan...Vera. I'm sorry.”
The words came out in a croak, and died on the air.
Sorry? What did sorry do? Sorry didn't bring them back, didn't punish Sergei and Kain....
She glanced down, and saw something on the coffee table that shouldn't be there. A piece of cream-colored paper. She picked it up and unfolded it.
Written in a clear, strong hand were the words: “Dearest Deathrain: These two seemed to know you, so we killed them. I hope this is proper motivation for you to come find us. If it isn't, we will continue to kill people associated with Emily Bell, starting with the tenants in this building. To prevent that, come to 4500 Grosvenor Avenue. There we will end this. Regards, Kain.”
Below that, written in a slanted but still legible hand: “You live because of me. Do not forget that. Sergei.”
Deathrain reread the note several times, trying to unravel its puzzle. Two very different notes, two different men.
Sergei's note had to have been written after Kain's. They killed Vera and Nolan, then Kain wrote his note and departed. Sergei lingered just long enough to scrawl his message, then left as well.
So her conjectures were correct: Sergei hadn't pursued her once she'd fallen into the bay. And without Sergei's tracking ability, Kain could do little. His nigh-invulnerable form would probably be too heavy to allow him to swim after her, and in his normal form he'd have normal human limitations. He could've stolen one of the docked boats and searched the nearby waters, but it appeared something prevented him from doing so.
There were numerous explanations: Auspice could've woken and distracted them. Some law enforcement officers or superheroes could've shown up. The note could be part of an elaborate game; Kain and Sergei could be on the same page, and just screwing with her head.
“It doesn't matter,” Deathrain whispered. “It doesn't fucking matter.”
The black fury rose within her. She didn't try to tamp it down; she let it flow over her like a hot wind. The hairs on her arms rose, and a tingling sensation filled every cell of her body.
The aftereffects from the drowning dissipated as if she'd just woken from a long sleep, and her mind felt as sharp and unrelenting as a spearhead.
“Kain. Sergei. Time to die.”
Chapter Twelve
4500 Grosvenor Avenue was located right on the edge of Midtown, where the shining, avant-garde office buildings gave way to older, no-longer-prosperous hunks of brick.
The building itself seemed to straddle these two worlds: it was sta
tely, with plenty of glass and sleek metal, but it didn't have the ostentatious quality of nearby fifty-story towers. Passersby would glance up at it, see no signage displaying what sort of activities went on inside, and continue on their ways without giving the stolid building a second thought.
It was the perfect headquarters for a criminal mastermind.
Deathrain parked her Jeep XP across the street and got out, not bothering with the parking meter. The meter maids could give her as many tickets as they wanted, or even tow the vehicle. She didn't care about the minutiae of the “normal” world; she cared about killing Kain and Sergei.
She'd rented the Jeep XP to carry her arsenal. She'd spent every penny she had on the weapons sitting in the back.
Emily Bell would have been broke, and forced to vacate her apartment – but Emily Bell was no more. Deathrain was in charge.
She opened the back of the Jeep and began strapping the weapons to her body. Grenades, pistols, a sniper rifle, a shotgun, a flamethrower, shock gloves, poisoned throwing stars, and more.
The weapons weighed her down, and would make it easy for an agile opponent – such as Sergei – to get close and pour the hurt on her. She didn't care. She was going in guns blazing, killing everything that moved. Her opposition might land some serious shots, but her healing factor could handle it.
She checked a special clip in her pants pocket: one clip of ultimatium-tipped rounds for her pistols. Eight bullets that could penetrate just about anything. They'd surely be able to get through Kain's tough skin. But she'd have to wait for the perfect opportunity; she'd only had enough cash for this one clip. Once that was depleted, she had little else that could likely hurt Kain. She wouldn't mind dropping the entire building on him, but she suspected he'd survive that cataclysm easily.
