Blood Law (3 page)

FOR
FALON CORBET, being special sucked. A lot.

Because
in today’s world, her rages, which were coming more frequently, and the dead
people that seemed to follow her even into her dreams were not en vogue. There
were other things, too, things she pretended weren’t there. Things that got her
into trouble.

It
was why she was constantly between jobs, always broke and never spending more
than a month anywhere. It was also why she lived in a closet-sized room on the
fifth floor of a flophouse in the dregs of Sacramento.

And
most of all, it was why she was hungry all of the time and why her most viable
dinner option was yet another one of those nasty prepackaged sandwiches. The
ones with soggy yellow bread and a limp pickle.

She
hated them so much that the thought of choking another one down was enough to
consider the pros and cons of living. For the third time that day, she
contemplated ending it all. She felt as if her life held no purpose. Survival
had become increasingly difficult. No one would miss her . . .

Yet.

There
was that niggling thought in the very back of her mind that told her she was
destined for more. That she had a very specific purpose for living. That if she
took her life, many more would be lost. So she persevered.

And
since beggars couldn’t be choosers, Falon decided to make a dinner run to Del’s
market.

Quietly,
she slipped into the hallway outside her room, pulling the door shut behind
her.

Cringing
when the rotting wooden floor creaked beneath her stealthy step, she glanced
quickly behind her, afraid she’d see her slumlord, the ever watchful Mr. Sabo.
If he caught sight of her, he would corner her then press her hard about her
late rent. Then, even as she tried to put him off, he’d bluster inches from her
face, his spittle spraying her cheeks and nose as he told her how, if he let
her slide on her already past due rent, he’d have to let everyone slide, and he
wasn’t in the goddamn business of enabling losers to continue to be losers.

Did
Sabo actually think she was happy with how her life had turned out? Of course,
he never bothered to ask. Then again, it wasn’t like she was Chatty Cathy
either. But whenever Sabo compared her to a loser, something deep and terrible
inside of Falon wanted to hurt him. Such feelings terrified her. She was not
always prone to violence, but sometimes . . . she couldn’t control it.

Holding
her breath, Falon flattened her slender limbs against the murky hallway, down
the five flights of stairs, and then inched her way into the dingy gray
vestibule. She nearly collapsed in relief. The old codger was nowhere in sight.
For someone who hadn’t eaten since peanut butter toast and a banana more than
twenty-four hours ago, she darted out the front door with Olympic sprinter
speed.

She
raised her face to the crisp evening breeze and inhaled. Spring had sprung in
Sacramento, but there was more than the fragrant scent of blossoms in the air.
The stench of decaying flesh, though barely perceptible, hung like a fog bank
along the streets most nights.

Recently,
her senses had honed. Unusually so. Just another anomaly that was Falon Corbet.

With
each passing day, it seemed the stench around her grew heavier, more prominent.
Tonight it combined with a dark energy that was so palpable Falon hesitated in
her step and seriously considered returning to her room. The vitality of it
felt like an electrical storm in her body, her veins live conduits. Her breath
came hard, fast, and warm. She could feel it curl around her each time she
exhaled. But as aware as she was of the dark forces that seemed to follow her
no matter where she went, she was even more aware of the auras around her. Not
the bright colorful ones of those who embraced life in happy accord. It was the
dark, malevolent ones, like dirty dredge oil that slithered along corners or
along the street gutters, careful to stay undetected, from who or what she
wasn’t sure.

Most
days she didn’t pay them much mind, like the cockroaches under the trash cans,
they were just a part of the world as she knew it. Squeezing her eyes shut,
Falon mentally pushed back, blocking the wild, chaotic swirls of emotion that
pierced her brain. Normally, if she concentrated hard enough and long enough,
she could push it all away. But some nights when she opened her eyes, she saw
the haunted souls who walked the streets, like holocaust victims, their deep,
dark, sunken eyes begging in silent agony for glorious release.

She
couldn’t help them. She didn’t know how to, and even if she did, the darker,
more powerful auras that swirled around them would prevent it. Intuitively, she
knew that.

Hastily
crossing the street, Falon glanced up at the waxing pink moon shrouded in dark,
wispy clouds. She tried to make light of the sinister sight, thinking the only
thing missing from the eerie vision was the lone howl of a wolf. Instead,
shivers slithered across her back like giant cold worms, and she felt the hint
of something else in the air. Something dark and powerful. Primal. Something
that would irrevocably change the course of her life.

Something
she wanted no part of.

Using
every ounce of her concentration, Falon closed her mind to every flick and
flare of energy around her. It cost her. More of her precious energy drained in
her efforts to keep her mind closed to things that did not concern her.

She
was not at her strongest, having eaten only enough to feed a bird more than a
day ago.

Head
lowered, Falon trudged down the sidewalk, crossed the oddly quiet street at the
first corner, then stopped just outside the metal and glass door of Del’s
grocery. She raised a hand to push the door open, then hesitated. Guilt gripped
her.

Unable
to stand the tragedy of the souls who haunted the many soup kitchens in town,
or endure the recrimination at the local churches, she’d become the lowest of
the lows—a petty thief. Yet, if she got over that sad fact and went in, she’d
eat again, and if she ate, she’d live another day. Hunger pains jabbed at her
belly in a harsh, grinding staccato. They were becoming unbearable. Despite her
aversion to them, when she pictured a soggy sandwich wrapped in cellophane, her
mouth actually began to salivate.

“Jesus,”
she hissed, staring at her trembling hand. She’d eat a damn brick she was so
hungry.

She
almost regretted her blasphemy. Despite her guilt, she knew God would want her
to eat. Wouldn’t he? Yes. After all, he’d guided her here before. Closing her
eyes, like a repeating movie reel, she played her artful pilfering out in her
head. She knew exactly how many steps it took to get from where she stood to
the refrigerated food section in the back. Once there, she’d smoothly duck
behind the towering paper towel display, out of sight of the big round mirrors
mounted in the ceiling, and slip a sandwich down her bulky sweatshirt. And
then, eyes cast to the floor, she’d walk past Mr. Delico, through the front
door, without any fear she’d be stopped.

She
opened her eyes, blinking away the hot sting of tears.

Yes,
she’d stolen from Mr. D before. Tonight, though, something significant was
going to be different. Tonight, she’d walk out of the store without leaving her
usual quarter. Tonight, she didn’t even have that. Which meant she’d have to
pay with something more . . . special—in a currency only she knew existed.
Maybe warn Mr. D when she sensed trouble heading his way. She’d done it before.
The first time she told him he might want to close early, he hadn’t listened.
He’d been robbed and pistol-whipped three hours later. After that, he never
questioned her. After that, he let her walk out with dinner, her cost, a
quarter.

With
a weary sigh, Falon pushed open the front door to Del’s and stopped short.
Pressure swirled about her, pushing against her in a tentative, probing way as
if trying to get into her head. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight
up. It didn’t take a PhD to know something was different in Delico’s grocery.

Son
of a bitch.

She
knew she should have stayed in her room!

Tentatively,
Falon cast a slow glance around the small grocery, looking for the jovial face
of the owner. He was nowhere in sight.

The
pressure mushroomed, followed by an unexpected jab of pain in her belly. Falon
grunted as if she’d been mule-kicked in the gut. Another hard punch racked her.
Hot tears welled in her eyes. Grabbing her midsection, she slowly turned to
face the counter.

The
thin, blond man behind the register bore no resemblance to the chubby
olive-skinned Italian shopkeeper. She stepped toward him, gasping when another
hard jab of pain twisted her innards. This pain wasn’t from hunger. This was
different.

A
warning.

Taking
a shallow breath, Falon slowly faced the blond man and demanded, “Where is Mr.
Delico?”

The
guy merely swept his gaze over her from head to toe, then nodded with a slow,
satisfied gesture that surprised her as much as his lopsided leer. He must have
X-ray vision. Her depleted curves were hiding beneath a baggy black sweatshirt
and two-sizes-too-large desert cammies and combat boots. Her black hair, a
shield to her soul, hung like a sheet halfway across her face and down to her
ass.

When
he continued to leer, Falon turned and walked stiffly toward the back
refrigerators. Subtly, she glanced up at the round mirrors mounted in the back
corners of the store. Through a slit in the wave of her hair, she watched his
dark eyes follow her. Then his eyes shifted to his left and his mouth moved
slightly, as if he was talking to someone behind the counter.

She’d
bet the rent she didn’t have that the person he was speaking to wasn’t Mr. D.
So where was he? Trussed up like a holiday pig in the storeroom?

“Damn
it,” she muttered softly.

Slowly,
she turned. As she did, she tossed the long waves of her hair off her face. She
straightened to her full height of five foot eight and looked pointedly over
the stacked aisles to the blond man behind the counter.

“Walk
out of here now,” she said softly, “and I promise not to hurt you.”

The
blond’s thin lips turned up into a smile then widened, showing badly stained
teeth. As he stepped to the side, another man rose from behind the counter. As
he appeared, his deadly aura blasted her entire being with hot, searing pain.
The force of it knocked her backward into the thick glass refrigerator doors.

“Shit!”
she woofed as her back shattered the glass and the velocity of the hit pushed
her into the unit.

She
really hated being special.

EMBEDDED
IN THE broken glass of the refrigerator door, with the shelves inside holding
her upright, just like in cartoons, Falon heard birdies chirping as they
circled around her head. But unlike a cartoon character, Falon recovered
quickly. Shoving the metal shelves and broken glass off her, she jumped to her
feet and prepared to fight. She might not like facing unpleasantness, but she
wasn’t a shrinking violet either. Her heretical life sucked, but she wasn’t
going to give it up without a fight.

“Oh,
holy hell!” she gulped, catching sight of the massive hulk that materialized
before her.

The
skinny dude had nothing on this guy. This dude looked like a Conan the
Barbarian.

Thick
brown hair hung straight around a sharp, angular face, a face embedded with the
deep lines of experience and age-old hatred. Black, penetrating eyes locked
onto her with such fervor she shivered. A thick leather strap crossed his worn
leather jerkin that was open at the throat. Brown suede pants were tucked into
doeskin moccasin-type knee-high boots. Huge gnarled hands clenched and
unclenched at his sides. Despite the power exuding in waves from the man, if
she wasn’t so terrified, she’d laugh. He looked ridiculous in that getup.

Falon
tilted her chin up defiantly. He could smash her with a flick of his wrist, but
only if she gave him the chance.

“I
might be half your size, mister,” Falon challenged, “but I’m quick, and I know
kung fu.” She postured in what she hoped looked like a credible karate chop
position. The scuzzy blond man behind the counter walked silently up behind his
big friend and stopped. Not, she was sure, because he took her threats to heart
but because something had fundamentally changed between them. Instead of a
leer, his long face had turned solemn. Like she had passed some sort of sniff
test, and she was now due his respect.