Paranormals | Book 3 | Darkness Reigns

by Andrews, Christopher

  Shockwave took it all in, his expression a mixture of fury and despair. He did not seem especially shocked by Walker’s words; John suspected he had known all along that trying to enlist their services was a long shot.

  Finally, Shockwave nodded, a slow, determined gesture. “I need to find Park. And force him to undo what he did, make it right.” He drew a long breath through his nose, then growled it out. “And I don’t have a goddamn clue where to start.”

  John told him, “I should be able to help you with that.”

  Shockwave’s head and shoulders had been hanging lower, but at that, he snapped upright. “How?”

  John considered the best way to apply his Sentietiam spell toward something that did not directly affect himself. “I can’t leave Vortex,” he clarified, “since we know he’s a definite target. But could you get something of Park’s? Something from his office, or his home? Something personal?”

  “I’ll get it, whatever it takes. But why?”

  “Because I can’t track the Skygger, but if you get me something personal to lock onto, I believe I can track your Doctor Park.”

  VORTEX, SHINING STAR, AND POWERHOUSE

  As Steve struggled his way back to consciousness, his first semi-coherent thoughts fell somewhere between I think I’ve been here before and Here we go again.

  When he finally managed to drag his eyelids open, he took in a familiar, antiseptic room, but in an instant, his primary focus shifted down to his gut, which was aching and burning even through a haze of painkillers. He hefted one heavy, unsteady hand over to probe at it, but he knew better than to poke too hard at the mountain of bandages he found there. He cringed, and that’s when he realized that, while he was still wearing his mask, it had been rolled up in the front almost to his eyes, and a nasal cannula fed him oxygen.

  That means I’m here as Vortex, he realized, not as Steve Davison. Man, Alan is going to have a cow that he can’t visit without giving away my identity.

  “Steve?” came a voice to his right. “You awake?”

  Steve attempted to roll his head that way, but he couldn’t quite do it.

  “Callin!” the voice called, and Steve finally recognized it as belonging to Powerhouse.

  Take it easy, he told himself. You’ve been down this road before. Just find out how bad it is, and go from there.

  Easier said than done, since he could already feel himself drifting off again ...

  PCA

  When he opened his eyes once more, Callin was leaning over him. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he sensed it wasn’t too long.

  “How do you feel?” Callin asked.

  Steve licked his lips. “Drugged. Sore. Thirsty.”

  “I’m sorry,” Callin said, “I have been told you can’t drink anything yet.”

  “Ice chips,” Lincoln chimed in from somewhere out of view.

  “Would you like some ice chips?”

  Steve nodded.

  Callin picked up a Styrofoam cup, fished out a small piece of ice, and slipped it between Steve’s parched lips.

  “Thanks,” Steve said as he moved the chip around his tongue until it melted. “Wh-what happened?”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Steve had been trying to figure that out. He remembered Michael’s calling them together for another operation against rogue slavers. Then ... something about darkness? Like, freaky darkness that even he had trouble seeing through?

  “I’m ... not s-sure,” he finally answered.

  Lincoln’s head rose into view in his peripheral vision. He turned his own head with better success this time, and saw that Lincoln sat on another hospital bed across the room. He was wearing his uniform pants, gloves, and mask, but he also had a hospital wristband on over his right glove.

  “What happened to you?” he asked, though it came out so croaky, he wasn’t sure if he was clear enough.

  Apparently he was, because Lincoln answered, “They’re pretty sure I have a mild concussion.”

  Steve’s eyes widened in shock.

  Lincoln nodded, his voice betraying some exasperation as he said, “I know, I know. ‘How can you get a concussion, Powerhouse?’ All I know is something thumped me on the back of the head hard enough to make a lasting impression.” Then his gaze shifted downward and gained a haunted look. “Among other things ...”

  “Steve?”

  Steve dragged his focus back to Callin.

  “Steve, do you remember a man dressed in all black, head-to-toe? With two short-swords?”

  And just like that, everything in Steve’s mind clicked back into place.

  Gasping, Steve started to sit up, but even before Shining Star placed a restraining hand against his shoulder, the fire that threatened to ignite in his guts suppressed his impulsive reaction. He cringed and tried to breathe.

  “Y-yeah,” Steve told them at last. “Yeah, I remember him. He was ... he p-pretended to be my brother, my brother John, back from the grave. And I ... I fell for it.”

  Lincoln’s head sagged on his neck as he said, “Yeah, don’t feel too bad about that.”

  “But then he did this,” Steve continued, gesturing down at his burning abdomen. “That kinda burst the b-bubble. So, I ... I’m guessing he was a rogue in disguise?”

  Callin and Lincoln exchanged glances — Steve wasn’t sure how to interpret it — and then Callin said to him, “Yes, and no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yes, the creature that you met, that pretended to be your brother, was using some kind of illusion power.”

  “ ‘Creature’?”

  Callin nodded. “That’s right. From what we’ve been told, it’s not a rogue, and it’s not human. It’s not even from this dimension.”

  Steve’s jaw dropped in surprise. “That’s ... that’s what my ‘brother’ told me. That there ... there was a creature from another dimension, called a ... a ‘Skygger,’ or something?” Steve grunted, which nagged his dry throat. “But you said ‘Yes, and no’ ...?”

  Callin hesitated a moment before saying, “That’s where things get tricky. You see, we have been joined by a man in all black who carries two swords. It seems that the creature — and yes, it is called ‘the Skygger’ — was specifically imitating him when it attacked you, we believe to sow discord and mistrust. This man, who calls himself ‘the Gladius,’ wants to stop the Skygger.”

  Steve blinked once, twice, taking all of that in. “But ... but how do you know he didn’t attack me—?”

  “We suspected exactly that, especially when you awoke briefly and recoiled upon seeing him.”

  “I did?”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to remember, given your state at the time.” Callin sighed. “And that’s just it, Steve. You were dying, from blood-loss and trauma. The only reason you are alive and speaking to me is thanks to this Gladius. Gladius, and Jeremy Walker, working together.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah,” Lincoln chimed in from where he had sagged back onto his bed. “ ‘Whoa’.”

  “So ... he’s ... this Gladius is on our side, then?”

  “He appears to be, yes.”

  “B-but ... but then he isn’t really ...?”

  “Lieutenant Takayasu and I pressed him as to his identity beneath his black mask. His behavior has been somewhat contradictory with his words, and in spite of his saving you, we had our reservations. But ...” Callin shook his head. “He claims that his true name is ‘Jaydee,’ and he showed us his face. According to Michael, and based on what you have told me yourself, Steve, this person is far too old to be your brother John.”

  “... oh.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was ... too much to hope for, I guess.”

  “This thing,” Lincoln said with disgust, “likes to mess with people. It gave me ... It acted out some of my fears. Personal stuff. And it sounds like it appeared to the lieutenant as that girl from the rogue pit.”

  “Chr
istine?”

  “Yeah, Christine. We don’t know what it showed Shockwave, but I can tell you, he’s been back to his old, pissy attitude ever since.”

  Callin nodded in agreement. “Yes. And we believe it appeared to me as my grandfather.”

  “You ‘believe’ ...?”

  “My experience was different from yours and the others’, suggesting a questionable and inconsistent motive for the Skygger. But given the circumstances ... well ...”

  Lincoln finished the thought. “We’re all having trouble believing the things we see right now.”

  After his initial rush at the revelation that this Gladius person was real but wasn’t his brother, Steve began to feel drowsy again. That, plus the notion that falling asleep would offer a brief escape from the growing fire in his belly, he wasn’t sure he could resist that appeal much longer.

  “I think ...” he said, forcing the words past his sluggish lips, “... that I’m a little outta my depth right now ... in this, you know, condition.”

  “Rest, Steve,” Callin assured him. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

  Steve started to ask whether they should, instead, be out there finding the Sk ... Sky ... the Skygger-monster ...

  ... but before he could express this, he drifted off once more, into slumber and away from the pain.

  The final glimmer of a thought that flitted through his mind was: John ...

  PCA

  After a minute or more had passed, and he was sure that Steve was staying asleep this time, Lincoln reclined on his own bed and said in a low voice, “You didn’t tell him that thing’s threatened to come after him.”

  Callin shrugged, Taalu-style. “Can he do anything to help us fight?”

  “I guess not. Not right now.”

  “Then I see no reason to add to the stress he’s already under.”

  Lincoln grunted in acknowledgment before closing his own eyes.

  Callin stole one more look at his dear friend, then returned to his post outside the door.

  SHOCKWAVE

  Andrew Park oscillated between fear and indignance, anger and self-pity. He railed against the fates for turning against him, how he had gone from a relative nobody, to a freaky paranormal, to a high-profile, in-demand paranormal ... then to the plaything of some monster he could barely comprehend ... and now to a fugitive on the run from the PCA, a paranormal celebrity manipulated into the position of a commonplace paranormal rogue.

  That thing, that devil that crept and thrived in darkness, had tricked him, played him, and cheated him. It had started out promising riches and fame beyond all he had yet achieved, but in short order, it had shifted from enticement to menace, shadowing him — literally — at any random hour of the day, pushing, demanding ... using him as it saw fit.

  “I’m the victim here,” he spoke aloud, pacing alone in this cheap “love motel” room. “I’m the wronged party. The ... the PCA should be on my side, defending me.”

  Of course, he knew that he’d had numerous opportunities to call for help, to contact either the police or the PCA, or maybe even the governor (for whom he had provided a private nip-tuck — not that he was allowed to talk about that, thanks to that irksome NDA). But how? How could he have known when was safe, until after the fact? That devil-thing showed up repeatedly, without warning, whenever the hell it wanted.

  He had done everything it demanded, using his abilities for people who disgusted him on a personal level. And while he had feared its threats, and loathed its repeated nose slashes, no real trouble brewed until those PCA people showed up. But even as it allowed them to leave his office, it had promised (well, maybe not “promised,” but it had certainly implied!) that it would deal with them, that it had the PCA well under its thumb and they would not bother Park again.

  And then they showed up this morning, just 24 hours later, and the beast helped him escape with its darkness ... only to abandon him, leaving him wandering the city with only the cash in his wallet — he couldn’t very well use his credit cards, now that he was on the run. He thought about calling Meredith, his wife, but their relationship was one of mutual convenience, which entailed his providing her with lots of money, expensive jewelry, and fancy clothes, while she allowed him to play with her body whenever he wanted — in a more literal sense than applied to other people. He highly doubted that Meredith would be willing to stick her neck out for him. No, scratch that: He knew for a fact that she wouldn’t do it.

  “Damn you ...” he muttered, and he wasn’t sure if he was cursing the devil-thing, the PCA field agents who forced him to go on the run, or his loveless marriage. Probably all of the above; they each deserved it.

  He could get out of this, he knew. With his particular skill set, he could alter his appearance, his build, his skin tone ... hell, with enough time to concentrate and focus on the fine details, he could even manipulate his fingerprints and vocal cords. There was no question that he could escape with his freedom ...

  ... but what freedom was that, exactly? Did he really want to start all over again — broke, and unknown? Where could he go from here? What would he do? He wasn’t stupid, and he knew that the PCA wasn’t either; if a new “Skin Sculptor” popped up somewhere else with no clear background or identity, they would be all over him.

  So what were his options, then? Try for a “normal” life without using the power the Paranormal Effect had bequeathed him?

  To hell with that.

  Forcing himself to stop pacing and sit on the edge of the crummy, twin-sized bed, he considered his other options. What if ... what if he turned himself over to the PCA? Could they protect him from the shadowy monster? He wasn’t so sure. From what few things it had bothered to say to him late last night, it boasted of running rings around the PCA, supposedly having already taken out a few of their heavy-hitters (and having a grand old time while doing it). Granted, that was only its side of the story, but from what he had seen it do, weaving darkness like a deranged artist, easier than he molded flesh ...

  No. No, the PCA couldn’t help him.

  Whether Park liked it or not, he thought that his only chance was to wait for it to draw the PCA’s fire, cause more havoc than it already had the past few weeks. He was pretty sure he had already killed the burned-hands agent, Takayasu, and maybe he could ask (beg) for it to finish off the other one, Shockwave, for him?

  Yeah. Yeah, that might work. Then it would be just his word for what exactly happened at his office. And Carolyn would help; she would do anything he told her — where else could she get the “freebies” only he could provide?

  So he decided that was the plan: He would wait, wait for the winds to shift away from him. He might not like the thing that had taken up sporadic residence in the kneehole under his desk — hell, it scared the hell out of him! — but right now, it was his best chance. Sooner or later, it would deal with these PCA people it had targeted, and then he would be, for all practical purposes, free.

  Releasing a sharp sigh, he rolled his neck, raised and lowered his tense shoulders, and attempted to relax.

  He was Doctor Andrew Park, and he would come out on top of this mess.

  All he had to do was wait—

  The room door flew off its hinges, tumbling topsy-turvy into the motel room and scraping down both of Park’s shins, scraping them bloody straight through his pants. He half-cried, half-cursed as he bent to cradle his injured limbs, feeling the blood flowing even as he craned his neck toward the gap where the door had stood secure just seconds ago.

  Shockwave stepped into his room, dressed in a crimson suit and with the air flickering around him like waves of heat. He looked quite pleased with himself, but the grin on his face did not reach his eyes, which boiled with something else, something much darker.

  “Thought about knocking down the whole goddamn wall,” he commented in a casual manner as he advanced upon Park, “but I figured, why risk hurtin’ any of the innocent people who’re just here to sneak in a quickie, you know what I’m
sayin’?”

  Park’s mind raced. He had gotten lucky before, catching Shockwave off-guard with the desk. He wasn’t sure he could manage that again. To buy some time, to think and to use his power to heal his abraded shins, he hissed in exaggerated pain, “H-how did you find m-me?”

  Shockwave shrugged. “Let’s just say a new friend of mine made great use of that fancy work computer of yours. That, plus the underwear you left behind one night when you were playin’ with Carolyn at work. Naughty naughty, Doc.”

  Shockwave was nearly on him, and Park decided it was now or never — while fixing the abrasions, he had also pumped up his calves and a little of his thighs, and he hoped that would be enough.

  “Sh-shockwave,” he began, “I just want to—”

  He cut himself off as he half-kicked, half-scooped up the fallen door with his feet and hefted it right at Shockwave’s face. But it was a sloppy effort from the start, and the door spun in the air more than flying forward, with Shockwave batting it aside with the most casual of defense waves.

  Still, Park moved for the window, knowing he could later fix any cuts he might sustain. If he could jump through it, he might be able to sneak between the cars in the rundown parking lot, losing himself before—

  His desperate escape attempt was over before it began: As his right foot came down, another kinetic wave rippled underneath his heel, prompting his foot to slide forward as though on the slickest of ice. Then the wave was gone, and his heel came down too far forward. His foot snapped flat as though he were en pointe, his left knee buckled as he tried to shift his weight, and he almost performed the splits as he went down hard on the cheap carpet. His right ankle felt at least sprained, maybe worse, and his inner thighs weren’t happy, either.

  Then Shockwave loomed over him, shoving him even further into the splits with a shoe on his shoulder. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, dumbass.”

  Park tried to fight back, reaching up to grab Shockwave’s leg, but the PCA man just shoved him harder before withdrawing. Twisting around in a clumsy dance on the floor, Park heaved himself upward and reached for Shockwave again. Shockwave moved his legs even further back, then bent forward and grabbed Park by the forearms.