Paranormals | Book 3 | Darkness Reigns

by Andrews, Christopher

  John cocked his head and shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe.”

  Shining Star also sighed. “I suspect the Skygger will not be willing to enlighten us. We may never truly know what it wants — or needs — unless we somehow manage to read its mind.” He looked to Shockwave. “No PCA help there?”

  Shockwave shook his head. “No assets on staff with telepathy. Not at the moment, anyway.”

  “Don’t give up on the notion of telepathy just yet,” John told them. When they both looked at him, he continued, “I’m working on something new, something special that might — might — give us an edge.”

  Shockwave mused over that for a second, then asked Shining Star, “Speakin’ of ‘edges’ ... don’t suppose you’ll be doin’ that thing with your cape?”

  Shining Star appeared skeptical. “If we have sufficient warning. It requires concentration and energy, and I can’t maintain them indefinitely. My sister will not be here to bolster me this time.”

  John was curious as to what “that thing with his cape” might be, but before he could ask, Shining Star looked to him.

  “Regarding this ‘edge’...” he said. “Is that why you were reading that old book and whispering to yourself earlier?”

  John smiled beneath his mask. “Oh, yes. Yes, it is.”

  "MIA"

  “Mia Singh” had proven a very useful form.

  The entity known to the Gladius as the Skygger had used tasty Mia — long may she rest — to draw in several new treats as it recovered from its hampered morning fun with that Shockwave fellow.

  One human male, who liked them young, followed “Mia” into a public restroom, locked the toilet stall, then turned around to find his own daughter staring at him, condemning him for his many, many sins. Oh, the Skygger got a lot of anguish out of that one before it slashed the man’s throat and snacked on his floppy tongue!

  Another human male, not quite as perverted but just as amorous, accepted “Mia’s” invitation to lunch, and then into the alleyway behind the restaurant. If he’d known that he was going to be lunch, he might have protected those kidneys a little better.

  Then there was the female, one of the more-than-humans who had been transformed by this dimension’s version of The Weir — she could send and receive feelings to and from domestic felines, of which she had many. A soothing talent, apparently, except that it had come at the cost of her sprouting matching feline fur all over her body ... which, according to her thoughts, made her feel freakish and unattractive to other women. That was why she had been so receptive to “Mia’s” wiles, and it really did work out for the best: Her fur had been neither here nor there, especially after the Skygger had removed the skin beneath and chomped on it while she screamed. These Weir-changed gave off such delicious vibes, it had left that one alive — out of gratitude. It wasn’t sure she appreciated that, but such was the way of things!

  Its only other dalliance this day had been less about feeding and more about pure entertainment. It came across a young adolescent — one who was quite angsty, because his mother drank too much and didn’t really love him. For that one, “Mia” had barely exchanged a word or two in the stairwell where the unhappy family lived, but he had been one of the very receptive ones who were so open to the Skygger’s particular brand of manipulation — it just loved those, like the big Weir-changed man with the Gladius, “Powerhouse.” While “Mia” watched, the boy beat, sodomized, then strangled his ornery mother. Then the Skygger allowed him to fully realize what he had done — shoved it down his emotions’ throat, really. The boy was so distraught, he tried to kill himself, but the Skygger decided not to let him, at first. It was just too much fun to keep him wallowing for a while longer!

  But the day was growing long, and the Skygger had a decision to make: Finish off the Gladius’ brother, then his friends, then the Gladius himself tonight ... or let them stew in sweet Weltschmerz another day or two? The more apprehensive they were, the more delectable the final reward would be!

  On the other hand, some of these Weir-changed were surprising the Skygger with their abilities, slipping through the cracks of its abating sphere, and it just couldn’t have that. The grievous wound the Gladius inflicted upon it still smarted — in spite of its best efforts to transmogrify the maimed flesh back into its proper state! — and demanded a reckoning ... but the Skygger had not lived this long by taking any true risks. The Gladius, and his friends (both new and old), had proven more of a challenge than it had expected. Perhaps best to depart now and be done with it; let their forever wondering, waiting, anticipating be torture enough.

  The wise choice, to be sure, but it did make its heart ache to lose out on such delightful fear and sorrow. So terrible a choice forced upon it, so unfair.

  It smiled, which mirrored onto “Mia’s” face, and spouted a giggling, “Oh, what a world! What a world!”

  The elderly human female standing near “Mia” on the street corner jolted at the sudden outburst, and turned to give “Mia” a disapproving glare.

  The Skygger allowed “Mia’s” smile to stretch inhumanly wide, willed her teeth to darken and splinter, and said in an alluring voice, “Hey, babe, you are one hot mama! Wanna take me home and let me suckle on those low-hanging tits of yours? It’s been sooo long since I’ve drunk mother’s milk.” It leaned in closer. “But I gotta warn ya: I do bite.”

  Aghast, the old bitch hustled away as fast as her spider-veined legs could carry her. Her fear was fleeting, but held a pungent aroma; she had cancer and would die within a year.

  The Skygger chuckled and licked its lips. “Heh. What a world, what a world.” Now that it thought about it, the retreating, cancer-riddled hag had born a passing resemblance to the Wicked Witch of The West.

  The Skygger liked The Wizard of Oz, especially the parts with the flying monkeys. It had watched the movie last week in the mind of a homeless child while he lay helpless in an alley, dying of starvation. That experience had been both diverting and savory.

  As “Mia” made its roundabout way to the hospital where they were keeping its prey, weaving back and forth along the sidewalk as it plucked at the casual worries and insecurities that plagued these people in the funniest ways, it encountered one thing that left a horrible taste in its mouth: A truly happy couple.

  From their thoughts, it knew they were recently married, hoping to have many children, and were not just in love, but were In Love — the obnoxious type who believed they were more than lovers, they were soulmates. And what made the experience so repulsive was, they were right: The Skygger could sense that their minds were in tune with one another in the most wretched fashion, the sort who would never argue, never stray, never debate what to do or what to eat because they were so in sync, and would go on finishing each other’s sentences throughout the entirety of their vulgar lives.

  It made the Skygger want to vomit. More than that, it filled the Skygger with an old hatred, something it rarely considered anymore, having assimilated it uncounted eons ago. Like their Love, it wasn’t just hate, it was Hate — and the Skygger hated them for making it feel like this, however ephemeral.

  It wanted to ruin their Love, very, very much ... but the quality of that Love meant it would take time. Oh, the Skygger could reach out and slash one of their throats, leaving the other one in unspeakable grief, but that wouldn’t be the same. To ruin that Love would require effort and focus. Was it willing to dismiss the Gladius? To shift its priorities? Or could it perhaps have the best of both worlds, allowing the Gladius and his ilk to brood in dread, while it worked on this oh-so happy couple?

  As tempting as it was ... no. No, it would be best not to delay any longer.

  And so “Mia” kept walking as the happy couple stopped under a streetlight as it flickered on for the night, and kissed. The Skygger gagged, but pressed onward.

  It would just have to take out its frustration on the Gladius’ brother.

  So much the better.

  PCA

  Ge
tting past the hospital’s so-called security was so simple, it was practically an invitation. Or an insult.

  When the Skygger needed to appear as “Mia,” it did; when it needed to appear as someone else — a PCA agent, or a familiar nurse, or a friendly orderly — it did; and when it needed to shed its masks to slither up a shadowed wall or through a dark air duct, on it went.

  They had the Gladius’ brother, Steve or “Vortex,” unlisted, but that didn’t matter in the slightest. The first nurse it passed was irritated by the commotion caused by the PCA on the fifth floor; the first doctor could not contain her curiosity about who was being treated in a certain room on that same floor. And the Skygger barely needed to be telepathic to notice the absence of thoughts in that portion of the building.

  I’ve foouund yooou ... the Skygger thought, its perverse smile brushing onto “Mia’s” face once again as it carried some stolen flowers down the hallway directly beneath its prey’s feet. But the slip was no harm, no foul; no one was looking at the moment.

  It reached out with its mind. As always, the specifics of the Gladius’ thoughts were more difficult to discern, the fine details membraned as they were within that damned magic of his, that bastard union of his Earthly origins and Ralalis gestation; it detected swirls and eddies, received strong flashes of information — as when it had learned of his brother — but nothing consistent, nothing reliable. If only the Skygger could possibly have known to seek him out and exterminate him before allowing such a ... such a weed to blossom.

  But there was little point in dwelling on the mistakes of the past. Best to finish off his brother, slaughter their allies, then savor the Gladius’ misery as it snuffed out his freakish light forever. Swifter than it had originally hoped, but it intended to relish the experience nonetheless.

  “Mia” slipped into the public restroom, dropped the flowers in the toilet, and writhed up another air duct to the floor above.

  Easing the next restroom door open, the Skygger took a moment to listen; its telepathy was a fine tool, but why eschew its other senses?

  “Ya know who coulda helped in all this?” That would be Shockwave speaking. The Skygger sneered when it remembered that the bastard had gotten lucky and hurt it — not as badly, as deeply as the Gladius, but enough — but the sneer shifted into a giddy smile as it recalled his reaction upon seeing Park’s slashed throat.

  “Who?” came the reply. That sounded like the Taalu alien, Callin or “the Shining Star.” He seemed to barely be listening to Shockwave; a mental fondle agreed that his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Asimov,” Shockwave blathered on, “if that traitorous ass hadn’t flown the coop. ‘Cause I bet Gladius’ little monster would’ve had trouble readin’ his mind. ‘Cause it wouldn’t really be a mind anymore, it’d just be a computer thinkin’. Sorta. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  The Shining Star grunted something like an affirmative, and went on thinking in Taalu. The Skygger looked deeper ... Was he doing math? It thought he was doing math. Odd, but what could one expect from an alien?

  Then another familiar voice spoke up, a hated voice. “I’m afraid I’m getting tired again.”

  The Skygger’s teeth ground. It was the Gladius.

  “Still got that headache, huh?”

  “Yes. I’ve been pushing my abilities to their limits, and it’s wearing me out.”

  “Yeah ...” Shockwave released a long, drawn-out yawn that was loud and obnoxious to the Skygger’s perked ears. “... I feel ya. If you guys got this, I think I’m gonna slip into an open room a few doors down, grab some shuteye.”

  “I need to do the same.” A brief pause. “Are you comfortable holding station alone again?”

  “I’ll be fine.” The Shining Star was as terse with the Gladius as he had been with Shockwave. “If you must rest, rest.”

  Heh, the Skygger thought. Yes. Rest.

  The Skygger expected another few pleasantries — these people loved their pleasantries — but was surprised when no one else spoke as first one, then another door opened and closed. It probed and found Shockwave entertaining erotic thoughts about one of the nurses elsewhere on the floor, while the Gladius appeared to be thinking about his damned magic. And the Shining Star continued his repetitious math.

  The Skygger waited another few minutes, to allow its weary prey to get settled as best they could. At one point a male nurse stepped in to urinate; the Skygger slipped into the shadows in the far corner and listened to the nurse think about his wife and his girlfriend, together — a fantasy that he might, somehow, get them into bed with him at the same time. Oh, the Skygger would have loved to play around with that, but knew, sadly, these were not the proper circumstances.

  All right. What form to take here? It knew that the alien had only encountered the real Mia for a brief moment. It could imitate one of the hospital staff, but he was likely too on guard for that to get the Skygger into Vortex’s room, especially after it needled them with pathetic Pastor Ron. It needed a more familiar face, someone known, but not overly so, certainly not one of the other Taalu — pity, that; it would’ve been fun to try playing the alien’s mother.

  A PCA field agent, then. Someone the Skygger had seen at that “raid” of theirs, someone who participated in taking down that trafficking ring while the Skygger watched from the rafters. Someone close, but not too close.

  The Skygger smiled ...

  The restroom door opened, and Lieutenant Junior Grade Ashton Gant, partner to Powerhouse, walked out into the corridor. Making sure to slump his shoulders and affect a subservient attitude, “Gant” shuffled his way the final stretch to where the Shining Star stood guard outside Vortex’s room.

  The Shining Star looked toward “Gant,” and while his eyes were again obscured by that interesting eye-mask of his, the Skygger detected only the mildest suspicion and idle curiosity float across his thoughts. For the most part, he remained focused upon those mathematical gymnastics which so fixated him.

  Keeping his smile inside, the Skygger wondered if the Shining Star’s associates knew just how single-minded he was regarding numerical patterns.

  Groveling to the level he knew the Shining Star would expect, “Gant” said, “Good evening, Grand Lord, sir.”

  The Shining Star nodded in an odd way. “Lieutenant Gant,” he returned, sounding as distracted as he had with the others.

  “Have you spoken with Powerhouse recently, sir? Do you know if he’s feeling any better?”

  “He’s been sleeping quite a bit.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Gant” glanced to the right, then left. With the exception of a nurse and a doctor at the far end of the hall, they were alone. Which made sense, given their evacuation of the immediate area.

  “Did you need something, Lieutenant Gant?”

  The Shining Star’s communication device sounded, letting the alien know that he had a call coming in from his people.

  That was, at least, what the Skygger made him believe.

  The Shining Star took the device in hand. “Callin here.”

  “Callin,” he believed he heard his mother say in Taalu. “You need to return to the encampment, right now.”

  He was instantly on alert, and the Skygger reveled in his growing panic — a panic that the confrontation he feared was here.

  “Mother,” he asked, “what’s wrong?”

  “That creature you warned us about,” said his mother’s voice, “it’s here. Two of the sentries have gone silent. Another sentry reported a growing darkness shrouding the south side of the encampment, and it’s spreading. Della and Charl are ready for battle, but, Callin ...” The Skygger added an emotional swallow for good measure. “Please, please come home. We need you.”

  “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  “Thank you,” his mother’s voice said before closing the connection.

  The Shining Star looked to “Gant,” and the Skygger almost slipped — it nearly proffered something like, “I got t
his,” until it remembered at the last instant that “Gant” would not have been able to understand the Taalu conversation.

  “Lieutenant,” the Shining Star was saying, “my people have an emergency. It might be the creature who wounded Vortex. Can you—?”

  That was “Gant’s” proper cue. “Yes. Go. I got this.”

  The Shining Star was already backing down the hallway toward the stairwell exit, but he continued speaking to “Gant.” “Not alone, Lieutenant. No offense, but you’ll need one of the others. Go two doors down and get Shockwave. Wake him if you have to.”

  “Gant” nodded, his face dripping with the expected Can-Do gusto. “You can count on me, Shining Star!”

  The Shining Star waved a hand in acknowledgment, then sprinted for the exit, his silver cape fluttering behind him.

  “Gant” waited until he left, held his station one minute longer, then opened the door to Vortex’s room ...

  ... and “Mia” walked in and closed the door behind her.

  Vortex laid on the far bed; he looked as though he were sleeping, but the Skygger could sense that he was actually ... meditating? Something like that. A deeper probe revealed memories playing of his time as a gymnast, the way the world spun around him as he performed a backflip, a cartwheel, a roundoff. The Skygger suspected he was using it as a means of focusing past the pain — which was, it was pleased to learn, considerable. The fool must have started denying the painkillers so that he could better protect himself.

  How cute.

  On the bed nearer to the door, Powerhouse lounged in his “superhero” uniform except for his mask, a magazine open but ignored on his lap. Like Vortex, he gave the first impression of being asleep, but his thoughts were cycling around a peculiar song.

  ... forty-seven bottles of beer on the wall ... he was thinking, ... forty-seven bottles of beeeer ... you take one down ... pass it around ...

  Unlike Vortex, Powerhouse stirred upon hearing “Mia” closing the door. He looked at her, seemed to recognize her, but like his departed alien friend and his incessant math, Powerhouse continued to prattle the song through his mind even as he said, “Ms. Singh? What’re you doing here?”