were trying to crawl through the walls.
Some would call her specialized precautions paranoid.
But then, most had no idea that crazed demons
Death didn't frighten her. No, there were times when Gaby prayed for death to take her.
Those prayers went unanswered.
What she didn't want, what she couldn't bear to contemplate, was unending torment. She could handle pain; she always had. But if the pain had no end…
Locking her teeth, Gaby stepped under the tepid spray and let the water hit her face, trickle down her body. It didn't dispel the truth of what she had to do, what she put off doing. It didn't ease her muscles or alleviate the agony that became a part of her, more so with every passing moment.
It only removed the sweat and took the sting out of her eyes.
Lingering in the shower, she cleaned her teeth while straining her ears to hear any sound of intrusion. Ten minutes later, clean and dry, she combed back her short dark hair and dressed in a way that wouldn't draw attention. Birthday or not, she could no longer deny her God-appointed duty.
Closing her eyes and relaxing her mind allowed her to drop her resistance, leaving her open to the summons.
Like the spike of a frozen ice pick, it struck her nape, then slowly, raggedly, scraped down her spine and straight into her soul.
Her muscles jerked and twitched, and her mouth opened on a gasp as the pain dug deep, expanding to invade her every nerve ending. She didn't shy away from the agony; she knew it would do no good. As an incentive, the physical misery would remain until she finished the job.
In her practiced way, Gaby evened her breathing, accepting, embracing the pain so it could revitalize her, heightening her awareness and honing her instincts to razor sharpness.
Today someone—some
She knew, because she'd kill it.
But not with the gun. Gun blasts made too much noise and drew too much attention. What Gaby had to do, no one would understand.
So no one could know.
She locked the weapon away in a special box that fit into her bedsprings. Eventually, someone would invade this sanctum, and then she'd have to move on. Until then, she did everything in her power to appear as a normal being.
Mustering a pretense of indifference, harboring her knife beneath her loose dark T-shirt and frayed jeans, Gaby left her apartment and went down the long, dark, narrow stairwell. Her footfalls caused a hollow echo in the dilapidated building while her mind moved ahead to her duties, where she'd start and how she'd finish.
Before she could leave the aged brick building, Morty Vance, her landlord and the owner of a kitschy comic book store next door, stepped out of his apartment.
'Gaby.'
Urgency sizzled and snapped, but she kept her voice even, her facade one of normalcy, when normalcy remained so far out of her reach.
'Mort.' It wasn't easy, but she somehow managed to lighten the intensity of her scowl. Mort wasn't a bad guy. The gray aura of difficulty and depression clung to him, but there were no reds or browns to indicate the presence of evil. 'I was just—'
'Going to join me for breakfast.' Knowing her weaknesses, he held a chipped ceramic mug filled with fragrant, steaming coffee toward her nose. 'Scrambled eggs are fresh off the stove. Come in and eat.'
Food. At his mention, her stomach rumbled in hollow need. How the hell did she constantly forget food? Father Mullond, rest his soul, had chastised her again and again for not refueling.
Thanks to her less-than-healthy eating habits, she weighed only one-twenty, which looked odd considering she stood six feet tall. But that sometimes worked to her advantage. Despite the lankiness of her limbs, omnipotent strength surged through her. Along with fluid muscles, she possessed awesome speed and deadly accuracy.
The devil's tools, but a gift from God.
Or so Father Mullond insisted.
Gaby had few female curves to get in the way of her duty. In no way, shape or form could she ever be labeled as a typical woman. Hell, she barely passed as typically human.
Morty, the dumbshit, didn't seem to notice or care.
Gaby wasn't psychic, not in the entertainment-perfect, romantic way average people liked to perceive special abilities. Her
She perceived the intention of the mentally sick, the innately wicked, the crazed fiends that scuttled over the surface of the earth, pretending to be like everyone else, fooling most, but not her.
When instructed, she took care of them.
Morty wasn't evil, so she didn't bother dwelling on him. But she'd have to be a real dope to be oblivious to his infatuation.
Sick bastard.
What did she have to draw male attention? Not a damn thing, which, she supposed, proved Mort's desperation for female company. Or maybe any company.
She glanced at the mug, at his pathetically hopeful grin, and gave up with a shrug. 'Yeah, sure. Why not?'
Fueling her body made her stronger, so it'd be easier to carry on. Each summons left her so depleted, so weak and vulnerable, just surviving became a chore. A little nourishment first wouldn't hurt.
Besides, she had some time before anything major happened. It meant she'd have to rush to reach her destination, wherever that destination might be, but she'd spent most of her life rushing from one ghastly abomination to another.
Her cheap rubber flip-flops slapped the scarred wooden floor as she crossed the hall and took the coffee. The hem of her loose-fitting jeans kicked up dust motes, sending them afloat in the gray, stagnant air. And still, Morty watched her with transparent idolatry.
After a deep drink that burned her throat and felt like heaven as it hit her empty stomach, Gaby followed Mort into his rooms.
She'd met Morty Vance three years ago after a particularly grueling destruction had left her too exposed to stay in her past residence. Thanks to Morty and his comic book store, she had a job to support herself while fulfilling her duty.
She lived too wired, and a lot too cautious, to tolerate nosy neighbors. The room above Morty's apartment suited her, and having the connecting comic book store next door proved convenient. No one, not even Morty, knew what she did to support herself, or about her calling. But Morty had seen her going up the stairs covered in sweat, sometimes spattered with blood, often bruised and worse.
As per their initial agreement before she rented from him, and despite his personal interest, Mort respected her privacy.
Whenever he'd come upon her in those situations, he'd offered assistance that she had to refuse. He'd offered protection, which she knew he couldn't give.
He offered… friendship.
And damn it, she'd never had a friend. So, just as she couldn't deny the calling, she couldn't quite deny pathetic Morty Vance.
He was such a dumb-ass loser creep.
Just what she deserved.
His pale blue eyes all but absorbed her. 'You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.'
She'd never thought in terms of meals because her life had never been routine. She slept when she could. Ate when she remembered. Fought when called upon. Destroyed as instructed.
And when time allowed, she drew and narrated her graphic novels.
The comics had gained instant popularity with the underground community. Gaby kept them out of the hands
