Page 11 of Darkness

Thank you, body donor, wherever you might be.

A scream split the night. Footsteps thudded along the sidewalk, another set following closely behind.

Farren sank back into the shadows. A man sprinted past, followed by another, down into an alley, one bearing the distinct aura of a traveler.

The other man’s aura was dark. Inky black. Not in the way of murderers or thieves but in the total absence of light.

Farren followed. Blood. Blood emanated from the traveler. Farren crept closer, Ruger in hand.

“Stop! Police!” the second man yelled.

One shot. Then another. Then another.

After a pause, a fourth and fifth shot sounded, followed by another, different in pitch and location.

Farren detected the faint but distinct herbal aroma indicative of his realm and drew closer. The red-haired traveler writhed on the ground. He sprang up, taking down the cop in a single pounce.

Oh, fuck. An occisor. The creature locked its fingers into the cop’s hair, bearing down. Only the energy humans called magic would stop the transference. With a gun at this distance, Farren might hit the cop.

No time to worry about who might see. Unless he acted fast… Farren threw up his hand. Sparks flew from his fingers, throwing out a ball of light. The occisor howled on impact. For a fleeting instant, an echo of the creature’s true form appeared, more animal than human, before the containment spell took hold. The occisor-possessed body tumbled to the ground.

The cop lay still on the filthy pavement, covered in blood but breathing. The occisor’s blood or the cop’s? Farren searched as best he could. Though he could see better in the dark than a human, he still relied on feel. Most of the blood wasn’t the cop’s own, though a trail of red flowed from the cop’s nostril to his chin.

Farren dug the man's wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open to an ID and an Atlanta PD shield. So, he really was a cop. This might prove to be a good thing or very bad. That the cop didn’t stop Farren’s search said a lot about his state of mind. If he still had one.

Forty-two-year-old detective lieutenant with the Atlanta Police Department, Morrisey James.

Farren pulled out his cell phone, hitting the first contact.

“Yes,” a bland female voice answered.

“This is Agent Farren Austen. I need containment. And an ambulance. One injured. Human male, police officer. One possessed body. An occisor.” No need to provide directions. One stipulation of Farren’s roaming free was mandatory cell phone tracking.

The dispatcher would also call off Atlanta PD if they’d responded. Physically, the alley fell within their jurisdiction. Non-physically? They weren't prepared to handle the situation, though protocol demanded they address the human differently from the occisor.

“We’ve dispatched crews to your location. ETA, fifteen minutes.”

Farren ended the call and shuffled to the second body, lying still, blood spilling from a gut wound. Low heart rate, breathing shallow. Too late to help the human half. Farren’s blast should keep the occisor subdued until help arrived. No time for interrogation now.

Farren kneeled by the cop and hovered a hand over the still form, starting at the head and working slowly down to the feet. Concussion, probably from his head hitting the pavement. Bruises, scrapes. His head likely hurt from the occisor’s attempted intrusion. Desperate creatures didn’t worry about little things like a host’s comfort.

Yet, the occisor hadn’t gotten in. Why not? Sure, the whole thing happened fast, but occisors needed little time. What would have happened if the cop hadn’t shot the thing, necessitating a body change?

Farren pressed gentle fingers against the cop’s forehead, checking for internal hemorrhaging. None. Good. While Farren could treat minor injuries, human brains were beyond his capabilities.

Morrisey James. Detective Morrisey James. Uncaring of the filth he might get on his blue jeans, Farren sat next to the detective. The man’s hair appeared dark, shot through with the occasional gray strand. Tall. Six feet. Maybe a bit more. Not bulky or muscle-bound.

Farren probed deeper, seeking damage to the man’s mind. Darkness, despair. Yet somehow, Morrisey James withstood an occisor attack.

The sheer loneliness in the man’s mind echoed the emptiness Farren carried within him since his arrival in this world. How could a human be so lonely, surrounded by his own kind?

Yet Detective Morrisey James didn’t feel like other humans. Not an outcast, just someone who didn’t quite fit in. Like Farren. Farren ran his fingers lightly over one pale cheek, humming a song a parent sang to him long ago, when he’d still clung to his chrysalis, about home, warmth, and the love of a parent for a spawn.

The cop’s eyes stayed closed, but one hand swatted at the air. He grimaced. Farren took the swinging hand in his own. Immediately the man calmed, relaxing on the ground, still gripping Farren’s hand.

Farren allowed some of his energy to flow into the cop. Had the cop been of Farren’s world, they might have formed a connection.

But Morrisey James was just an ordinary human. Farren brushed unkempt hair from an ashen forehead, trying to provide any comfort he could.

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