ARC: Cracked (3 page)

You. Will. Stop. Laughing.

I whip around and make a motion like I’m going to dive at him again, but, at the last possible second, I jump at his unsuspecting companion instead, punching Hawkish hard in the face. My thumbnail slides across his cheek, and a red line wells. I land, and grin.

Then realize I’m an idiot. A soul-drunk idiot.

What was I thinking? I finally get the opportunity for some answers and what do I do? I punch it in the face.

Dammit.

They stop laughing and, as the crouching and snarling resume, I realize that failing to get answers is now the least of my problems. They outnumber me, they’re stronger than me and they’re pissed.

Shit.

As they leap, I cut sharp and run, bent low, my feet flying. Snarls and stomps follow behind me. I hit the stairs and leap down to the first landing, then turn and leap to the bottom. They race right behind me. I blast through the door and it explodes out of its frame at the contact. It slows me, only a half-second, but it’s enough. I’m tackled from behind. A blur of brightly patterned furniture and warm orange wall paint flashes across my vision as we crash and skid across the floor. The lobby is the only inviting room in the asylum and, not coincidentally, the only room visitors are allowed to see. I find it sadly ironic that I’m going to die in the only room worth living in.

I twist so I’m facing my captor – the man I clawed, Hawkish. He slams me into the wall, and the stud gives under my back.

It
hurts
.

He wraps his hand around my throat. Blood dribbles down his face.

“You think you can attack me, halfling?” Hawkish leans in, his beaky nose nearly touching mine.

I’m a halfling. Half-something. Half of whatever they are. He slowly strokes my cheek in the same place where I cut him, pulling the skin with each pass. I open my mouth to apologize, to ask the questions I’ve been dying to know the answers to my whole life.

But his question beats mine out of my mouth, his black eyes hard on my face. “Think you can
cut
me, halfling?” His thumb presses into my cheek and the nail bites into the skin. The sting becomes a burn as he pushes harder. As the blood begins to crawl down my cheek, the questions of “who” and “what” shrivel and die on my tongue. He’s going to kill me.

As if to prove my point, he jerks his thumb across my face. My steel skin parts like silk. I squeal and scramble, fighting his hold. He leans forward, menace radiating from him. Was this what my victims felt like? Powerless? Sweaty? Heart pounding?

“Hal-Karim, we aren’t supposed to kill our own,” the leader says, stepping into the lobby.

Yes, you can’t kill your own! Own
what
is suddenly an unimportant detail.

“But accidents do happen,” my captor snarls.

My heart stops.

“She’s only a halfling. We’ll say she’s a traitor. That she flipped sides,” Puffy offers. Apparently he’s still pissed about Samson.

“That might even be true,” Hawkish says and strokes the other side of my face, his nails rasping against my skin. I squirm to get away. “Why else would she pick Samson?”

Flip from what side? I have no idea but it’s my only chance. “I didn’t flip sides! I just couldn’t resist! He attacked me first!”

He isn’t buying and I recognize the look in his eye. Bloodlust. I often see it in the mirror. It’s too late. How ironic I learn I’m not alone as I die.

When Mom told me I was special and unique, I thought she literally meant I was special and unique. After all, I never met any other children who could lift cars or chew on steel bolts.

Turns out I’m only ‘mom-special’. Special like a snowflake is special. Special like a school kid on honor roll.

There are others like me. And they want to kill me.

That would have been good to know, Mom!

“Please…” I won’t give up. “It’s the truth. I didn’t flip–”

“Shhhh.” The hungry eyes gobble mine. “The truth doesn’t matter when you look so… delicious.” He leans in, breathing deep. His tongue snakes out and slithers wetly across my cheek, licking the blood trickling down my face. He sneers, he smiles. Then he freezes. His eyes widen and his tongue darts out to lick me again.

Those wide, wicked eyes meet mine. “Are you…?”

A loud bang echoes through the room and we all turn to face the entrance. The front door has been kicked open.

Someone else has come to join the party.

THREE

As parties go, the food is good but the hosts are complete assholes.

The new attendee, a man, crouches in the doorway. Well, not really a man, a human teenager. One of God’s most misbegotten creatures – big like grown-ups and yet dumb like children. Selfish, moody, reckless, with a tendency to sleep too much and complain too often. I’m a teenager too, but I take exception to the human part.

He’s around eighteen. Grungy jeans, faded black hoodie under a leather sleeveless jacket. Blond, shoulder-length hair. An attempt at a beard (fail).

The million-dollar question – whose side is he on? Unlikely to be mine, as I’ve never really been much of a team player.

“Crusader!” hisses one of my attackers.

The words have no sooner slithered from his lips than the boy lobs a brown, grapefruit-sized ball into the room. As it arches over us, he raises a gun and shoots it. The ball explodes and liquid showers down. I duck behind Hawkish, but some still finds my exposed shoulder and it burns. My captor screams and collapses on the floor writhing – he took the brunt of the flying liquid. I don’t see the other two – they must have taken cover in the stairwell or one of the several hallways feeding off the main room.

“Do you want to be demon-chow? Come on!” the boy shouts to me.

Demon
-chow? But that’s a thought for another moment. I need no further encouragement and race towards the entryway. Towards my savior.

It’s an unusual feeling.

The clip of shoes behind me alerts me that one of the “demons” is chasing me. His claws brush my back and I dive past the boy, out of the lobby and into the entryway, bringing my savior and the demon into a collision course. They crash with a meaty thud. I jump to my feet and back away from where they grapple. The boy shoves the demon back into the lobby and they go rolling. I creep back towards the door to keep an eye on the action.

The leader kneels by his fallen comrade, who still writhes on the floor. The leader half-rises, but Hawkish clutches at his neck and whispers in his ear. With a shocked look at his friend, then a final snarl at me, he chalks something on the linoleum and, with a crack like thunder, the two of them disappear.

Poof
. Just like that.

A crashing noise drags my attention to where the newcomer and Puffy face off. A rust-colored couch is tipped on its back and the combatants roll around on the remains of what was once a coffee table. The boy scrambles free of Puffy and jumps to his feet. He pulls a wicked-looking knife, long and curved, from his belt. I creep back into the lobby, but keep my distance while I debate my options. I pull the door to the entryway closed. No matter what I decide, I don’t want any additional audience members.

Desire for revenge pulses in my veins. I want to punish the demon. Crush! Kill! And above all – cackle! They claim revenge is a dish best served cold, but I’ve found it to be equally delicious hot – not unlike fried chicken. Two-on-one, the boy and I could probably take him. If nothing else, the boy can serve as a distraction as the demon tears him to shreds.

But a strong dose of self-preservation holds me back. I’ve already learnt the hard way that the demons are stronger than me – or at least a lot more accustomed to fighting people who can fight back.

So I stand. Indecisive.

The demon looks similarly indecisive, his eyes shooting between the two of us, then back to where his friends disappeared. The boy steps in his way, obviously blocking him off.

“You’re not thinking of running, are you?” the boy taunts, blue eyes narrow as he passes the blade back and forth between his hands. “I’m not even a full Crusader, just a kid. You’re not afraid of a kid, are you?”

The snarling leap seems to indicate “no”. In a move too fast to be merely human, the boy jumps to the side as the demon streaks by. With a smooth motion, the boy rolls back to his feet and dives at the demon’s back, slashing hard across its spine. The demon shrieks to shatter glass, his back arching as if someone had pulled his bowstring. The boy pins the demon face down as it flails and puts his hands on its bare neck. Inky black smoke billows out of the demon where the boy makes contact with its skin. The smoke then disappears into the boy’s fingertips, like he’s some demon-smoke-sucking sponge. Once all the smoke is absorbed, the boy releases the now-limp demon and stands. He’s a little wobbly and he puts a bracing hand on the wall. Then he tips back his head and exhales a long stream of light grey fog that I instantly recognize. I recognize it because I routinely eat it.

It is the essence of a human soul.

I sit down. Hard.

The boy pushes himself off the wall and his forehead scrunches with concern. Concern’s good. Concern means he’s not going to turn on me now that the others are out of the way. “Are you OK?” he asks.

OK? I’ve gone from thinking I’m Superwoman (OK, so maybe her evil twin) to having my ass handed to me. I learnt my beloved mom was one big, fat liar and now here’s a boy
exhaling
souls who might try to kill me any minute. It’s been one hell of a day.

But, it occurs to me he’s probably asking about all the blood and not my emotional turmoil.

I nod, then hold out my gown. “It’s not mine. Another man was attacked.” The boy makes to take off for the stairs – can’t have that! “Don’t leave me!” He pauses and I shake my head. “He’s dead. He was… torn apart.” The Hunger flares at the memory, and I look down to hide my exhilaration.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I sneak a peek at him. “That must have been hard.”

I try not to snort.

I examine the boy from beneath a ragged curtain of hair. He still doesn’t look as if he suspects anything and an idea takes root. Despite his grungy appearance, the eyes are guileless and the face open. Giddiness sweeps through me. A second chance for some answers stands in front of me, wrapped in a simple-minded package.

I’ll need to tread carefully. Just because he’s against my enemies doesn’t mean he’s for me. In fact, had he shown up half an hour earlier, I suspect this would have been a very different conversation. If he senses I’m more than some hapless victim, this could still go sideways.

But the opportunity for some answers…

My…
specialness
was one of those we’ll-talk-about-it-when-you’re-older topics. Turns out, it wasn’t
my
getting older that became the issue, but my mom’s. Unfortunately there aren’t any equivalent books to
How Babies Are Made
to cover these particular gaps in my education. I know Mom didn’t plan to get murdered, but I still curse her lack of foresight. Never more so than today.

This boy might have the answers; I just have to take them from him. I consider the many tools at my disposal, eyeing his large blood-splattered frame, and settle on my weapon of choice – one so infrequently used I need to dust it off first.

My eyes fill with tears. “Wha–” I swallow hard “– what were those things?”

“Demons.” Thanks, Einstein. I got that part. “Turns out spiritual warfare is a lot less theoretical than you probably think.”

How many times had he practiced that line? I wouldn’t make judgments on what
I
think, silly boy. I let a tear trickle over.

He hurries to reassure me. “Don’t cry – I’ll protect you.”

Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

“What do they want?” I ask. The boy sits down on the floor next to me and pats my bruised back reassuringly. I try not to wince and look up at him like he’s my hero – which is equally painful.

“To destroy the world,” he says. Apparently wannabe monster-hunters tend towards the dramatic. I turn my attention to the body lying across from us to hide my irritation.

“Destroy the world?” I push. The boy sees where I’m looking and stands. He walks to where it lies and pulls a rustic-looking, clay globe from his belt. I recognize it as the same kind he had lobbed into the room; the kind that burned my shoulder. He pops a cork and pours liquid all over the corpse. The body starts to smoke and bubble. He turns back to me, holds the ball to his lips and takes a swig. I gasp.

“Don’t worry! It’s just water! Well, holy water. But it only hurts demons.”

I discreetly tug my nightgown’s neckline to more completely cover the burns on my shoulder.

He offers the ball to me. “Thirsty?”

I try not to look appalled.

“So, how do they try to destroy the world?” I ask again. He’s starting to make me consider the other tools in my arsenal.
Speak, boy!

He squats next to me and tucks his hair behind his ear with his free hand. We both watch the body dissolve. “By taking it over. Outnumbering the good guys till there aren’t any left. Most demons were once regular people who were convinced to sell their souls. Then, when they died, they became demons and started convincing others.”

Finally, some helpful information. I didn’t sell my soul – but maybe that doesn’t count for halflings. I feel as though the definition of that’s pretty self-explanatory. And colossal fibber though Mom’s turning out to be, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t a demon. “And the rest? How are the other demons made?”

“Some demons just are. I don’t really know the specifics, though there are a bunch of theories. Angels that sided with Lucifer during the fall, minions created by Satan the way God made Adam.” He shrugs. “I don’t really worry too much about theories – just enough so I know who to kill.” He grins toothily.

Under different circumstances, maybe we could have been friends.

He continues. “There are halflings, too – they’re born. Succubae and incubi trying to inflate the ranks ‘naturally’.”

Ding-ding-ding! I try to dial down the curiosity in my expression from tell-me-now-before-I-rip-your-head-off-and-try-to-suck-the-truth-out-of-it to “Please, do go on.” It must have worked because he keeps talking instead of trying to run.