One Kiss: An Apocalyptic Urban Fantasy (Transmissions from The International Council for the Exploration of the Universe., #1) (6 page)

"Yes," Emmanuel said, looking over his shoulder at the woman. She'd joined the parade now. Due to her height I could still easily find her in the crowd.

"She looks really high," I said to him.

He bit his lip and nodded. "Sure." Then he smiled at me and brought his flask out from his back pocket. "Let's dance," he said. I nodded and we caught up to Michael, who was chatting up one of the girls in short skirts.

I took another swig off Emmanuel's flask, thinking I tasted something herbal in it this time. "What is this?" I asked.

But Emmanuel didn't answer; he was looking behind us. I followed his gaze and saw the woman moving quickly through the crowd, headed straight for the band. Emmanuel took my hand and pulled me to the edge of the parade as the woman barreled through the center. "Maybe we should go," he said.

"What?" Michael yelled at him. "No way, it's band bonding day, and the sun has only just set."

The sky was a dusky blue, the air imbued with a softness that made the world seem safe and fun. "Yeah," I said to Emmanuel. I raised my eyebrows. "Don't you want to bond?" I asked, his hand feeling like a live wire in mine.

He looked back at the woman and shook his head. She approach the trumpet player and raised her right leg high, then crashed it down, her bare foot smacking against the pavement. She raised her left leg and did the same. Letting her head roll on her neck she reached out and grasped at the air. I noticed that the side of her neck looked weird. I squinted through the crowd.

"Is she hurt?" I asked.

"Shit," Emmanuel said. "We need to go."

He took my arm and pulled but I felt rooted to the spot, watching her head loll on her neck. I thought I could see her tendons moving. The way she stamped her foot reminded me of the apparition in the cemetery. Suddenly, her teeth bared, the dancing woman reached out with grasping hands and took hold of the trumpet player.

He tried to shrug her off, his hat falling askew, but she was strong, pulling him closer to her mouth. He stopped playing and turned toward her. Then she bit down hard onto his cheek. Her eyes seemed to glow green as the man screamed and the music fell apart, stuttering to a stop. The crowd's gyrations slowed and stopped with the music, their attention drawn to the attack taking place.

The woman was holding the trumpet player tight. He whaled away at her, using his instrument and his fist. Her fat jiggled each time he connected. A young man pulled a gun from the waistband of his low-slung shorts and held it on the woman. "Let him go!" he yelled.

Screams began to rise. Heels clattered on the pavement. Emmanuel pulled on me harder but I didn't move; I felt like I couldn't. My brain struggled to digest the events in front of me, incapable of doing anything else, like sending me running for my life. There was something horrifyingly familiar about the whole scene.

The sound of the gunshot was not as loud as I would have thought. The bullet entered the woman's stomach, making her jerk slightly, but she didn't let go. A puff of smoke rose from the barrel and I thought for a moment I could smell sage. The second shot hit her in the back of the shoulder and I saw chunks of flesh and blood splatter across the sidewalk. But she held on, stepping, toes first, into the trumpet player, knocking him to the ground, falling with him. Lying on top of him, his trumpet now crushed between them, his arms trapped, legs weighted by her, she reared her head back and dived her teeth into his neck, cutting off a fresh scream.

Emmanuel pulled on me again but I shook my head. The gunman stood over the woman and unloaded the rest of his clip into her back but she kept biting, the trumpet player's body shaking beneath her.

Emmanuel scooped me up into his arms and ran down the block, holding me tight against his chest. I could smell the mix of beer and smoky herbs on his breath. I placed my hand against his chest and felt Emmanuel's heart. It seemed to be pulsing into my hand, each beat throbbing through me.

"
At that point you must have realized there was something serious happening?" I asked, working hard to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

"I didn't know what anything was. I didn't know there was anything more than humans. I still thought so, even after seeing that attack, after having witnesses with me. Other eyes I could trust. I still thought the world was what we'd all thought."

"When you say we do you mean humans?"

"Yes. I suppose I should stop referring to myself that way."

"Some scholars would categorize you as human."

She laughed, the sound alluring. "Those scholars have never met me."

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with how little I knew about her. Perhaps she was more powerful than we suspected. "What happened next?" I asked. "Where did you run to?"

<<<<>>>>

E
mmanuel lowered me onto a couch, bending over me. I sank into the cushions and then he slipped his arms from beneath me. Even without his body against mine I felt his heartbeat thrumming through me. "Jesus, what the fuck was that?" Michael yelled as he paced back and forth. Emmanuel sat in an armchair next to me, his elbows on his knees, eyes watching me.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No," I said, my voice vibrating with the energy I felt coursing through me.

Michael stomped over to Emmanuel. "Dude, what the fuck was that?" he yelled.

Emmanuel looked up at him. "I'm not sure," he answered.

Michael turned away from him and began to pace again. Emmanuel sat back in his chair and pulled his flask out from his front pocket. He unscrewed the top and tilted his head back. I watched his Adam's apple bob as he drank deeply from the small container. Michael came back over and stood impatiently above him until Emmanuel lowered the flask from his lips and handed it over to Michael, who paced away with it.

He took a long swig and then turned to me. "What do you think it was?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I don't know. I heard that there was a drug causing attacks like that."

“What drug?" Michael asked.

Emmanuel looked over at me, his eyes searching my face. "It's been on the news," I said. "It causes terrible hallucinations, and there was that attack last week."

"What attack?" Michael asked stepping closer to me.

I shrugged under his focused scrutiny. "Didn't you hear about it?"

"Obviously not!" he yelled. "If I had I wouldn't be fucking asking you about it, would I?"

"Ease up," Emmanuel said.

Michael took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took a second deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice tight. "Please, tell me about the attack." Michael's fist clenched and unclenched by his side.

"I don't know all the details, but a woman attacked several friends on their way home from the bar. They experienced seizures afterward and were brought to Mercy Hospital."

"They had to shoot the woman in the head to get her off," Emmanuel said, his brow deeply creased.

"Fuck," Michael said, turning away from me and taking another sip off the flask.

"I'm surprised you didn't hear about it," I said. "It was a pretty big story."

I felt Emmanuel looking at me and when I turned to him, his eyes were intense and dark, penetrating. "I think you should stay here tonight," he said.

"Here?" I said, looking around me for the first time. I was on a worn couch, under a high ceiling crossed with wide wooden beams. Behind where Michael paced was an open kitchen, the sink filled with dishes. I looked to my left and saw a row of factory windows, two sheets crisscrossing each, neither large enough to cover the expanse alone.

"You can have my room," Emmanuel said. "Just stay until tomorrow." He put his hand over mine and I could feel the steady beat of his heart again.

"I have to go to the hospital in the morning," I said, looking down at our hands. His covered mine, long elegant fingers, neatly trimmed nails.

"You shouldn't go to the hospital." His voice was smooth and soothing.

"No," I said, looking up at him. He started at my strong reaction. "I'm going to the hospital tomorrow. I'm needed."

"What?" he asked.

"I'm donating bone marrow," I said.

"What?" Michael asked, storming back over "We have band practice all week. The Bell House Show is coming up." He referred to a booking our new manager had made for us. She had assured us that it would turn into a record contract. She was getting all the right people there. 

"I know," I told Michael. "I'll be fine."

"After a bone marrow transplant!"

"Don't worry," I said, my voice lowering. "I've done it before. I'll be fine."

Michael shook his head. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

"Will you at least sleep here?" Emmanuel asked. "I'm not comfortable with you going home alone, and I don't even really think it's safe to escort you."

"You think it's that bad?" I asked.

"Why risk it? There are cops out there going crazy. Not to mention the face-eating junkies." As if to prove his point a siren began to wail in the distance.

"Okay," I answered, nodding my head. He smiled and removed his hand from mine. The steady beat of his heart left with him. 

Michael sat down next to me, collapsing onto the couch. His hand grazed my bare arm. It felt like getting a deep cut, the kind where you don't feel pain, just the jolt of cold metal slicing through your flesh. Michael's lips were on mine. I breathed him in, feeling that thrum rise into a crescendo as our tongues met. His left hand was at my waist, pulling at my shirt, and the right held onto my braids. I felt bobby pins loosening, his stubble against my chin, his palm over my breast, heat pouring between us. And then strong arms grabbed me from behind, lifting me off Michael. I'd been straddling him, I realized, as I was hauled onto my feet. Michael held onto one of my braids, yanking my head sideways.

Emmanuel roared and brought his arm down onto Michael's wrist, and I heard a sickening crack. Michael's fingers fell from my hair and he cradled the injured arm to his chest. His skin looked gray, his eyes sunken. Emmanuel dragged me across the room as I reached out toward Michael, my throat dry, body buzzing, hunger coursing through me, feeling like I'd never be satiated. And then I felt a pang of pure revulsion. The wave of lust brought with it an avalanche of shame and fear. I gagged, my body convulsing against Emmanuel's strong arms.

He released me and I fell to my hands and knees on the wooden floor. I stared down at the patterns, the knots of color, and the heads of nails, my vision pulsing, blurred by tears. My hair hung around me in strands, some of it still up, the rest of it torn loose, giving me a shield from the scene around me. Slowly my breathing returned to normal. I sat back on my heels and looked up.

Emmanuel was standing over Michael, his hands on the lead singer's wrist. "What's happening?" Michael asked.

"Everything is fine," Emmanuel said as he released Michael's arm, laying it gently on his chest. "I think we've all had a little too much to drink. Let's go to bed."

"But I'm not tired," I said, a shudder running through me. It felt amazing. "Did you put something in my drink?" I asked, fear chilling the heat inside me and focusing my vision upon Emmanuel.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Of course not." He sounded insulted.

"What about Michael?" I asked feeling a wave of nausea.

"You just drank too much," Emmanuel said crossing the room to me. "Come on, I'll take you to bed. It's been a rough day for everyone."

When he reached for me I slapped his hand away. "I don't feel right," I said, his touch sending jolts through me.

"You can stay in my room," Emanuel offered. "You can lock yourself in, Okay?" I didn't answer him. "I won't touch you," he promised.

****

I
woke up with a start.  The room I was in seemed familiar and safe. Despite the high ceilings and half-shrouded factory windows there was something about this space that felt right, almost like a sanctuary. It even smelled like incense. Votive candles lined the windowsill, their unlit wicks standing out as black silhouettes against the light coming through the white sheets that covered the window. Pushing the comforter away, I slipped out of the big bed.

I wore a dark T-shirt that belonged to Emmanuel. It fell to the middle of my thighs, closer to the knee than hip. My ankle-length white socks appeared ghostly in the dark room. They quieted the sound of my footsteps as I crossed to the windows.

Wax covered the sill and dripped onto the rough wooden floor below. The fresh candles' bases had melted directly onto the old ones. Black, blue, purple, and red twisted around each other like streams of water running down the side of a mountain. I ran my finger across the smooth surface of the wax and felt an energy lingering there. The spark of life, I thought. That was the first thing the woman I'd seen in the cemetery said to me. What did she mean?

A car drove by, making the shadows from the draped sheets race across the ceiling. I felt the air on my skin, sensed the lingering movement in the solidified wax, could almost taste the fumes from the passing vehicle. I must have been drugged. Someone put something in my beer.

But that didn't explain the woman in the cemetery. After watching the attack I wondered if I'd imagined her. Maybe she was real. I believed her that Megan was dead but not gone. I'd never felt that she was gone. There was something tickling at the back of my mind. But as I tried to grasp onto it the memory dissipated, like smoke, drifting away into the ether.

Emmanuel hadn't mentioned the cemetery. Was it a ghost? Witchcraft? You couldn't live in Crescent City without hearing stories about spirits and other unknown dark things that go bump in the night. Maybe it wasn't a hallucination. Maybe none of it was.

The first place Megan and I lived was a warehouse squat. It wasn't safe or clean but it was dry and free. And everyone agreed it was haunted. Winds rustled threateningly. Ashtrays shot across rooms. Matches lit themselves. But compared to the other humans, all that seemed like nothing.

It was as if we'd escaped one hell in order to enter another. We'd run from my stepfather, to fall into the hands of younger and stronger men. But we were different. Megan used her knife like they were sushi. Never a stab, always a slice. I could see blood arcing across the wall. Megan standing over me, a man running out the door. She'd shake afterwards. And we'd hold each other tight, our faces close, sharing each other's breath.