Phoenix (dystopian romance) (Theta Waves: Episode 1) (4 page)

"Youch," A now familiar voice complained. "That hurt." The lurker from the night before rubbed a finger against his brow.

She scuttled crablike across the bed, finding her feet as she wrestled her way past him. "You," she said, backing toward the door, pulling her T-shirt from the floor and holding it over her chest, hoping it covered at least most of her breasts. Where was Ami anyway?

The assailant took a lazy step toward her, noting that she couldn't keep her gaze on him; it kept betraying her, trailing to the door, to her escape route, back again to her jeans puddled on the floor.

"That's twice you've ruined my buzz," she told him, deciding to pull her shirt on with some dignity and aim for the pants later.

He looked her head to heel as she poked her head through the neckline. "Don't worry," he said. "I have plenty enough of that vile substance you love so much to keep you calm for days." He opened his fist to reveal several packets that hooked her gaze as easily as a landed fish.

She couldn't pull her gaze from them. "Where did you get them?" Her heart chirped in her chest, but not pleasantly. She had the feeling he would indeed use them to incapacitate her, especially after last night's escape.

"Wouldn't you rather know how I found you?"

His hair truly did remind her of charcoal, but his eyes...so strangely green she wondered if he had Cajun or Acadian somewhere in his heritage. French eyes her mom always called them. "I'd rather know why you need to keep me calm." She eyed him warily.

He lifted one shoulder deferentially. "To transport you."

She broke for the door, pants be damned, and sprinted for the stairs. In her haste, she failed to see Ami lying at the head of them and tripped over his legs. She tumbled, doing her best to catch herself before she could fall down the steps, but it was no use. She'd lost her footing, and then her balance, and then her knee struck the first tread as she sprawled forward. A blinding pain shot through her skull, sending fireworks up behind her eyelids. She gasped, trying to force her hands to the railing for balance instead of to her head to soothe the ache.

Her hand caught flesh instead and a sob escaped her throat as she realized it had to be the lurker. She tried to wrench free.

"Stop it," he said. "Stop or you'll fall; I'm trying to help."

"The hell you are."

He made a clucking sound as he yanked on her, forcing her, twisting, to a precarious footing on the second tread. "Hell, Heaven, zealots, martyrs. Such dangerous verbiage for a mere addict."

"I'm not an addict."

"The hell you aren't." This time the twitch of smile seemed genuine.

"What did you do to Ami?"

He shrugged and looked down, contemplating. "Hit him." He toed the inert form with his cowboy boot and Ami groaned. "Maybe a couple of times. With this." He raised his hand and for the first time Theda realized he held a Taser. She cringed.

"Don't," she pleaded.

"Don't make me," he said, but for some inexplicable reason, the threat didn't sound like a threat, and his gaze trailed to her mouth where it lingered until she lowered her eyes first, and even then she wasn't sure he wasn't still looking.

"At least help him to the bed," she said meekly. She had no intention of being tasered.

Her lurker narrowed his gaze warily and bent to lift Ami over his shoulder. Theda was watching him struggle towards the bedroom when she realized this was the opportunity for her to run. Torn between making sure Ami was okay and escaping, of grabbing for her jeans where she knew her last smear was hidden, her feet were rooted to the floor for a long moment before she could make a decision. She wasn't sure Ami could ever forgive her, and she regretted having to leave behind all the packets the lurker seemed to have, but better to ask forgiveness than beg permission.

She took flight down the stairs, padding as quietly but as quickly as she could. She knew her assailant would notice she was gone if he hadn't already, and she prayed there would be no one in the station this early in the morning to see her state of undress. Luckily, her T-shirt was long enough that it skirted the bottom of her panty line. She pulled at the front, trying to stretch it further as she sped for the porch where she assumed Ami kept his jackets. She had the material of a trench coat in her grip even as her assailant came at her from behind.

She knew he was there without even turning, and she knew it would be a waste of time to do anything but grab for the coat and plunge headlong into the street. Pulling the sleeve of the trench over one arm as she ran, she sent one short plea to a god who no longer cared, that she'd make it.

She was jerked to a stop before she made it down the fourth step.

"There's gratitude for you," she heard him say from behind.

She had no choice but to turn. ""Gratitude for what?" She started to slink her arm out of the sleeve, fully intending to catch him off guard with her seeming intention to confront him.

He reeled her in before she had time to extract all the way. "Gratitude for your friend upstairs. Gratitude for saving your life." He grappled for her elbow, and catching it, yanked her closer.

"I won't wear those cuffs again," she said.

"No worries about that." He gave her a rakish look that would have stopped her heart in another time, under different circumstances.

Suspicious, she tried to keep her distance, tough as it was being so man-handled.

"You're not going to taser me, are you?" She licked her lips, fearful. Where was his other hand anyway? Was it rummaging into his pocket for that horrid weapon?

"That would be one way to put it," he said.

Now she really was afraid. "I'll be good," she said. "I promise."

"Of course you will,
minou
." Somehow he managed to bend her slightly backward over his arm. ""Now there's a good little addict," he said, showing her three square strips. "Be a good little user and peel the lining off, will you?"

She shook her head.

"Do it or I will taser you."

She eyed him thoughtfully. It was quite a choice: being incapacitated from a Taser or from her drug of choice. "How many?"

He shrugged. "Two. Maybe three."

Her mouth watered. "I've never done two at a time before." She said it carefully, trying to infer that she might be an addict, but she'd not gone quite that hard-core. Maybe he would believe her. "I think three would kill me."

He quirked a charcoal brow with just a trace of good humour. "Addicts always lie," he said. "Three it is."

"I'm not lying."

"Then peel off what you think you can stand and then peel one more."

"I won't."

"You will, or I'll taser you." He shrugged. "It's your choice."

Theda's mind was reeling, but dutifully she pulled off the linings of three strips, trying not to look too pleased at the notion.

"Now stick out your tongue," he said.

She made a focused effort to stick her tongue out as wide and as flat as she could. There was the tingling sensation as the strips touched her taste buds, and then she broke out in such a fever of pleasure that she had to close her eyes.

If she sunk, it was into such a delirium of heated oil that it filled her nostrils, her mouth, the pores in her skin until she was full to the brim with it, until she had no space left inside to even feel the man's touch on her thighs as he hefted her into his arms. A quick vision of resin-coated linen and fragrant oils oozed into her memory; the fragrance of myrrh and the heat of balsam filled her nostrils and clogged her throat. She knew the memory, an ancient one by now, but it meant nothing to her in the moment.

She let it go in favour of soaking in ecstasy, and she didn't have to fight the memory again until her memory bled out a different vision, one filled with agonized screams and fire beneath her fingernails. She fought then, like a crazed woman, her heart flapping about in her chest like a frightened sparrow and sending the bliss into such quick retreat she came awake with a gag.

The coppery tang of blood was in her mouth, the fullness of a thick finger pressing into the back of her throat. She gagged again, coughing, retching. The eyes peering into hers were not those of her stalker, not green as a summer -bleached lawn; they were black and crinkled and filled with disinterested malice.

ACT FIVE

"What did you see?" The owner of the eyes proved to be a man in his late 50s. Well-dressed. Surrounded by posh furnishings. Theda looked past him to see her abductor leaning against the wall, arms crossed, feet crossed. Despite his seeming nonchalance, she could tell there was tension coiled in his muscles. She leaned into the chair she now realized she was tied to and smiled at the man in front of her.

"I see a well-dressed hoodlum," she said, twisting her wrists behind her to see how tightly they were bound.

At that, she felt her head wrenched back, her scalp burning as he twisted his meaty hands in her hair. "I didn't ask you what you see; I asked you what you saw."

"Bunnies. Puppies." It was foolish to goad him, she knew. She forced herself to swallow casually, doing her best to avoid the gaze of her abductor against the wall. Neither could she bring herself to look at this man in front of her. She knew what he was.

"Do you know what I can do to you?" The man asked.

This time she did look at him squarely in the eye. "I know exactly what you can do to me, Mr. Mayor."

He pulled at his jacket fastidiously. ""You've been accused of religion mongering."

"Who accuses me and with what proof?"

"Does it matter?"

"I see," Theda said. "Much like the witch trials in Salem, I take it."

He got an interesting glint in his eye at that. "Religion wasted old Earth. It destroyed it even before the god came. We plan to protect new Earth however we can."

"And protecting it means letting crime and atrocities reign?"

"We'll clean that up in time. Religion caused more devastation than any of that. The idea of a god, of gods. Belief wiped out entire races. Brought on war after war."

"Hey, you're preaching to the choir, man." She meant it as a joke, thinking an educated man might appreciate the irony. He didn't. She felt a slap sting her cheek and her eyes watered.

"Such talk. I'd expect no less from a zealot." His black eyes bored into her. A shuffling sound came from behind him as Theda noticed her lurker readjusting his stance. He stood more at attention now.

She licked her lips. "Listen; you have no worries. Religion and me have nothing in common."

Even the mentions of such things as witch trials can be construed as religion," he said.

She shrugged. "Of course it can. Anything can if you think about it long enough. But what is it except a bit of history?"

"Old earth is filled with history; some of which hasn't done it any good."

"I could say the same about my own history. You, about yours. Doesn't mean it's all bad."

He leaned back. "Ah yes. Your history. An evangelical preacher for a father, some kind of self-proclaimed seeress for a mother. What happened to them, Theda?"

She wouldn't answer. She didn't owe him that.

"I'll tell you: he thought she was possessed. Died trying to exorcise her demons."

"She shot him because he tortured her." She said it without feeling. Those days were long gone. Godspit had made them nothing to her.

"And yet she went with the god when he came." The lurker's voice. She'd know the throatiness of it anywhere by now.

She snapped her attention to the man leaning against the wall. "Exactly how long have you been watching me?"

He gave her what she construed as a look of feigned apology as he lifted one shoulder. "I do my homework."

Theda glared at the mayor. "How much are you paying him?"

"What does it matter to you? You certainly can't even match it."

"I guess I just want to know how much it's worth to you to rid the world of religion mongering."

"Everyone answers to someone," he said, getting up. "Ezekiel here answers to me. I answer to someone else."

"Listen, I don't know what anyone told you. Ezekiel here is obviously just in it for the money. I sell people little hallucinations so that I can eat, that's all," Theda said. "They put a little godspit on their tongues, and they take a little trip, and they pay me a little cash for it."

"Yes, but Ezekiel here says they come to you with the smear. You don't provide it."

She glared at Ezekiel as she spoke. ""It's part of the ruse," Theda lied. "How many people in this day and age would allow untested blood to touch their tongue? They bring me an AIDS test, I swap it out for a godspit, and then I use the drug on them. The next time I have a john, I repeat the pattern. That way the johns themselves unknowingly supply the hallucination for their trick." She shrugged. "It's beautifully simple, actually." She turned back to the mayor and tried to smile at him. "And remarkably economical."