Paranormals | Book 3 | Darkness Reigns

by Andrews, Christopher

  “Oh, yes, Miss Singh,” her rescuer assured her, his voice full of heart and a gloved hand gentle upon her shoulder, and he sounded as though he were smiling. “I’ll take good care of you.”

  She smiled, too, because that was just what she had wanted to ...

  Wait. Did she say that out loud before?

  No, she realized. No, I didn’t.

  Okay. Okay, that was weird. But she already knew he was paranormal, right? He was strong and tough enough to withstand a shower of acid, and seemed to be able to see in the dark, so maybe this was just one more thing he could do? She had spent most of her recent years with her head in the sand where paranormals were concerned, so what did she know about how the whole thing worked?

  And yet, not knowing that she was echoing the feelings of one of her other liberators that day, something about this whole rescue was starting to feel ... off.

  “Oops,” the handsome guy said, no longer bothering to whisper. “See, I do that sometimes. I get excited and I slip here and there, miss the little details. In fact, it recently cost me an eye — so to speak.”

  Then her “rescuer” (she hated putting quotes around that word!) chuckled, and it really startled her — when he had just spoken, he had been somewhere behind her and to the right, but his snicker came from almost directly in front of her. In spite of her previous determination to trust him, and having absolutely no idea how she could fend off someone with his kind of power, she took a small step back and clenched her fists.

  “Now see, that’s the challenge, right there,” he said. “After your experience this morning, you should have left feeling lost and afraid. Not this anger and indignation, this defiance that brought you here this evening.” He sighed, and it sounded somehow whimsical. “I’m still trying to get a feel for you people. Don’t want to rush things, you know? ‘Blow my wad prematurely’? Did I use that right? You’ve got the tastiest idioms!”

  Mia felt cold inside ... and yet, at the same time, returning heat. He was toying with her, and that made her feel—

  “See!” he noted with apparent glee. “See! That’s what I mean! You’re in clear danger, mortal danger, but it’s stoking your anger rather than weighing you down with terror. I love this world!”

  “Who are you?” she demanded, and was proud that her voice shook only a little.

  A little click sounded from overhead, and a naked lightbulb flared on, forcing her to cringe and blink ... but when she could see again, she wished she had kept her eyes shut.

  Her “rescuer’s” gloved hand still held the pull-chain overhead, and he was leering down at her with a hideous grin ... but something was wrong with his face. Before, he had been so handsome, but his face was wrong now:

  His eyes were cold, but mostly still the same shape as before. Before those eyes, though, his nose and mouth bore heavy scars — the tip of his nose looked as though it had been hacked off; his lips were so ragged that they revealed more teeth than they should have; even the teeth themselves sported multiple, deep chips. It was an awful sight.

  “Yes,” he agreed as he lowered his arm, his words somehow clear despite the damage to his mouth. “Yes, it’s still taking more energy to hide this than the rest.” Then he shrugged as though he had not a care in the world, and his voice grew darker. “But that’s why I’m here: To collect my due dividends!”

  Mia did not follow any of that, nor was she interested in what it meant. Shifting her weight, she prepared to take another step back, away from him and toward the—

  Faster than she could follow, he thrust his hand forward — she expected to feel a life-ending punch to the gut, but instead of a fist, his hand was flattened and pointed, his gloved fingertips poking her in the lowest part of her abdomen.

  “Come now, girl,” he said with that obscene smile and too many teeth. “As level-headed as you are, you must know that you’re not getting out of this, right?” His smile widened further, impossibly far for a human face. “Not that I wouldn’t love for you to try, but I am on a teensy bit of a time-table these days. I’m actually hoping I’ll be followed soon, so, you know ... tick-tock!”

  Mia missed the end of his little monologue, though, because something that had been in the corner of her eye since the light turned on finally snagged her attention. And it also explained the odd smell in the room.

  Hanging from the dirty wall to her right was what appeared to be a human skin. Stretched taught and with surprisingly little blood, she only recognized it because of its general shape and size, and the face which still held its features — the pulled features, she suspected, of Mrs. Kimble.

  Mia wanted to vomit, but it would not come.

  “Either way works for me. One of my chattel will clean up after us.”

  Mia looked back to ... to whatever he was, and her eyes widened.

  He had changed further in the scant seconds she had looked away. Much further. Rather than just a mangled face, his body had shifted from the top of his head down to his feet. Her “rescuer” looked a lot, for all the world, like a traditional, Christian devil, except instead of red skin, its flesh was a sickly grey, the grey of decomposing flesh. It was also wingless, its head was shaped more like some kind of decrepit wolf or coyote than a gargoyle, and its disfigured nose and mouth were now a scarred, short snout.

  The devil smiled at her and jabbed its hand another inch forward. That hand had grown nasty claws during its transformation, and they cut into her flesh almost without resistance.

  Mia felt no pain, yet, but she was very conscious of her hot blood running down her legs. She lifted her tearing eyes to the dark ceiling and prayed, “D-Dear God, p-please—”

  “Ah-ah-ah!” the devil chided, stepping closer, its claws piercing further and higher, and that she felt. It was no longer as tall as it had been in the form of her rescuer; its face was level with hers. And the light coming from that bare bulb dulled into a twilight even as it dragged its slicing hand ever upward. “This is my hour, when darkness reigns.”

  VORTEX AND SHINING STAR

  “You ready?” Steve asked Callin.

  Callin clenched his fists and then shook his arms loose, and answered, “Ready.”

  Steve drew a deep breath ... and fired his vortex wave at his friend. The wave started at its lowest setting, but after an affirming nod from Callin, Steve amped it up, for both of them.

  Alan and Ardette watched from the training center’s control niche, here in the “unassigned” warehouse on Davison Electronics’ property. Ardette kept one eye on her monitors and Alan could not help but look at least a little stressed (if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be Alan), but each of them was only paying half of their attention to the duo; they were conversing about something else, something unrelated to the exercise, in low tones. After all, this had become a regular thing, and their presence was a formality at this point.

  “You good?” Steve checked, his voice just loud enough to cover the ten yards between them.

  Callin grunted, nodding Taalu-style, as he forced his arms a few inches away from his body. “So long as you are. I ... would not want your heart to ... stop again.”

  Steve chuckled, even though he was straining as much as his alien friend. “Them’s fightin’ words.”

  Callin’s eyebrows raised in question, but rather than explaining his slang, Steve spurred his vortex wave higher still, and then they were both too busy straining to talk about it: Steve pushing his vortex, Callin flexing his muscles as he resisted the compression.

  The idea of their shared workout — Shining Star for physical endurance; Vortex for systemic stamina — came up months ago, when Callin had shared that he performed what Steve recognized as “isometrics” to maintain his slender-but-taught musculature. He had pointed out that, when one’s strength was augmented to superhumanoid levels, leaving nearly every physical action effortless, how long before one’s natural brawn atrophied? He therefore opted for the isometric exercises.

  This confused Steve, and he had said so.
His understanding was that almost all paranormals (or “converts,” as the Taalu called them) gained their power in a way that had almost no adverse effect on their overall physiology. He started pointing out that, say, fire-breathing paranormals did not usually have to worry about burning their own tongues or lips, but then literally slapped his forehead when he thought of a much better, more apt example: Powerhouse.

  Lincoln was one of the strongest, if not the strongest paranormal on record, and yet — to Steve’s knowledge — outside of PCA testing, he never exercised, but was still as muscular as his innate physique and manual labor had made him before the Paranormal Effect struck. In fact, thinking back on it, Steve thought he might be even more muscular now (though Lincoln’s running around shirtless these days might have an influence on that impression).

  Callin had considered that, then confessed that it might be either a difference between Taalu and human physiology or, perhaps, an erroneous assumption on his people’s part. His father, whose power he had inherited, had been the one to explain it to him. Could Carn Lan have been wrong? Had Callin being exercising since puberty for nothing? Maybe.

  They had discussed it for a while after that, during which Steve nixed going to the PCA’s training facilities. Steve had argued, the fewer specifics the PCA’s upper-echelon possessed about the extent of the Shining Star’s abilities, the greater the mystery as to just how powerful he was, the better for keeping their independent status — in other words, they wouldn’t know if they could afford to piss him off.

  And so they landed where they were now: Using Vortex’s private training center, Callin struggling against his vortex wave, even as Steve strained to maintain it.

  “That’s thirty seconds,” Ardette called. “Take a few minutes, boys, then give it another go.”

  “Don’t push yourself too hard, Steve ...” Alan followed, before Ardette touched his arm and mumbled something too low for Steve to hear (though he could guess it was probably an admonishment to chill out).

  He ceased his vortex wave, and both he and Callin slumped, gasping for breath. Callin again shook his arms, this time less to relieve tension and more to restore circulation, as he approached his human friend.

  “That vortex ended stronger than usual,” the Taalu leader commented. “How do you feel?”

  “Winded ...” Steve gasped with evidence. “But no heart ... flutters or palpitations ...”

  Callin nodded. “That’s good. Your body is growing more accustomed to this manner of stress.” He swung his arms around. “As is mine, I think.”

  Steve grunted. “Too bad your guys can’t just ... run a tricorder over us to be sure ...”

  Callin guffawed. “That would be nice, yes. But between my converted condition and your being human ...”

  Steve nodded and waved it off. “I know, I know ... just wishful thinking ...”

  Callin returned his nod, Taalu-style, in agreement.

  One of the big selling points when the Taalu announced their presence to the White House had been that the United States of America — by virtue of being the Taalu’s ad hoc new home — would enjoy the benefits of their advanced technology. Callin, as the Grand Lord of his people, had made it clear that this would be regulated, and would be shared with all the nations of Earth ... but, by advantageous proximity, the United States would be the first to receive these “perks.”

  Unfortunately, much to the frustration of all involved — including Callin, who had made the offer in good faith — this was proving more difficult than anticipated. They had known from the beginning that there would be technological compatibility issues: How does one go about plugging a futuristic, extraterrestrial sensor into a preexisting radar system? How does one interlink a hyper-efficient computer system with the world’s current Internet? These were not things that could be readily accomplished, not without a great deal of effort from both sides.

  But it was the biological compatibility issues that were causing the greatest disappointment. Did the Taalu have superior treatments for cancer? Yes ... their brand of cancer, for their own physiology. Did they have the ability to place dying patients into stasis, slowing their decline while their illnesses or injuries were treated? Again, yes ... and again, for their own people.

  Both the Taalu and Earth’s greatest medical minds had been working the problem for the past year, and so far they had made little progress. And it wasn’t just the ability to heal the sick that was proving onerous.

  The first human, a PCA field agent by the name of Dolores Tannen, who volunteered to undergo the Taalu’s phrenic impression procedure — which taught them entire languages in less than a day — had indeed learned to speak Taalu ... but soon discovered that she had lost all command of English. And so far, they had found no way to safely undo the process. So now the only way Ensign Tannen could speak to her husband and daughter, or understand them, was by using one of the Taalu’s speech translators.

  In all the time the Taalu had been here, they had only managed to successfully share one significant piece of technology with first the United States, and then the whole world: Water purification.

  Water purification technology was critical for the Taalu, as their hyper-efficient digestive systems produced very little bio-waste — they did not urinate or defecate, but sweated out an odorless equivalent in amounts that were a small fraction of what they consumed. As a consequence, they were very susceptible to food poisoning and any sort of water contaminants, be they bacterial, viral, or parasitic in nature. Working with terrestrial manufacturers, they had produced cheap, perpetually reusable purification “straws” that left their Earthly counterparts in the proverbial dust. The citizens of the world could drink straight from raw sewage if they wished (though few put it to that test), and while there were still those who went hungry, no one had to go thirsty these days — any water could now be potable water.

  The only stumbling block had been when a foreign government had tried to “regulate” which of their citizens could, or could not, possess these devices, which cost mere cents to create. But a visit from the Shining Star and his paranormal siblings had put a stop to that bullshit. There were unhappy grumblings in the United Nations over the incident, but since no government wanted to stymie the flow of future advanced technology, it had not amounted to much ... though Steve had recommended to Callin that the Taalu not push their luck too far in that arena.

  But overall, things had been going pretty well. The general public had accepted the Taalu without excessive hoopla, or opposition — most likely due to having already spent six years accepting that superhumans were real, and the semi-regular announcements about all the new alien transmissions detected by SETI. The fact that the Taalu women were gorgeous by Western standards probably didn’t hurt, either; both Earth men and Earth women, from varied walks of life, couldn’t get enough of them.

  On the “superhero” front, Shining Star’s partnering with Vortex had been a high point for Steve, and between their efforts and the PCA’s, rogue activity in this part of the country — all over the country, really — had been quieting down for the first time since the White Flash.

  At least, it had seemed that way, until the past few weeks ...

  “Ready to go again?” Callin asked, stirring Steve from his reflections.

  “Yeah,” he replied, getting his head back in the game. “Yeah, let’s go again.”

  Callin stared at him for a moment. “Are you sure?”

  Steve forced a smile, a little embarrassed that he had just been standing there like an idiot, allowing his thoughts to wander afield. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Let’s go again.”

  But Taalu and humans were too similar, and their friendship had grown too much for Callin to miss the shadow that had fallen over his friend’s face. “What’s on your mind, Steve?”

  Steve sighed and offered a weak shrug. “It’s nothing, it’s just ...” He glanced over to the control niche, making sure that Alan was too preoccupied to pick up on one more thing t
o worry about. But he could see that he had no problem in that department; Alan and Ardette were chatting again, smiles on each of their faces, touching one another on the arm a little more than necessary, as they often did.

  Callin picked up on that, too. “Why do they try to keep their romantic relationship a secret? You would not judge them for it. Would you?”

  Steve grinned at that, still staring at the pair as they remained oblivious. “No, not at all.”

  “So ... why attempt to hide it?” He cocked his head. “Especially when they are not very good at doing so.”

  Steve laughed at that, which finally drew Ardette’s attention. He smiled and offered a casual wave, then rotated more toward Callin as though they were deep in conversation. Ardette returned her attention to Alan.

  “I don’t know why they hide it,” Steve admitted. “Maybe because, technically, I’m their boss, and they work together? Alan can be kind of conservative that way, which is a nicer way of saying he sometimes has a stick up his ass.”

  Callin blinked. “ ‘A stick’ ...?”

  Steve chuckled. “Sorry. Idiom. It means Alan sometimes has trouble just, you know, relaxing.” Then it was his turn to cock his head. “I’m surprised you haven’t already heard that one from Shockwave.”

  Callin shrugged. “I may have. I have learned to disregard much of what Shockwave says.”

  That cracked up Steve, and he laughed long enough that he hoped Callin would lose track of his original question.

  The young Grand Lord did not. “So, what is weighing on your mind?”

  “I’ve just ... I’ve had this nagging feeling since the raid earlier. This bleary sense of being just kind of ... weirded out. I’m not sure how to explain it.”

  Callin looked confused. “Did we not ‘save the day’?”

  “Yeah, sure we did.”

  “Do you feel we missed something? Lost track of one of the converts?”