blue blood began to ooze out. Her blood moved like
ink, staining everything that it touched. On her knees, she looked
up at Adam.
"I can help you."
"No, Grace, all you can do is
help yourself. You're a parasite too. You've lived off my family
for generations, weaving us all into your story, keeping yourself
alive through us."
Adam swung the pipe again,
hitting Grace in the torso, lifting her bodily up from the floor.
She came down hard, her head slamming against the hard concrete
floor.
"How many years, Grace? How
many different Kings have you taken to your bed to bear their
children? How long have you been using us?"
Grace struggled to her feet. A
cut above her eye was leaking more dark, inky blood down her face.
Her tattoos were slipping towards it, and towards the gash in her
knee, leaking out across her skin. Rats, leaving a sinking ship.
Looking down at herself, she tried to scoop them up, smearing
handfuls of ink across her flesh. She was shrinking, and ageing,
before Adam's eyes.
"Since the beginning," replied Grace, her voice no longer
the soft and self - assured purr that it
had been, but now the cracked cackle of a crone. "There were no
Kings before me. I started this whole story. I started your story
too, my son."
"Whore," Adam replied flatly,
and brought the pipe down onto Grace's head so hard that it split
cleanly in two almost to her nose. She dropped to her knees, a
sound like wind leaving her, before she fell face first to the
floor. Underneath her, the ink that had been her blood moved like a
flat fish, slithering and sliding across the floor until it found a
crack and started to ooze its way to freedom.
"What was she?" asked Able,
unaccustomed to speaking like this inside his own head.
"A story," replied Adam. "Maybe
the oldest story there is."
"She called you 'son'"
"Long story."
"Are you really Adam King? What
are you doing in my head?"
"Longer story still. I'll tell
you everything later. Right now, we've got a King to kill."
Able Quirk felt the thing he
called Magpye stir, somewhere deep in the undercurrents of his
shared mind. The ghosts, to a dead man, lay silent. Able felt
Adam's mind close, folding over on itself so that, without warning,
there was suddenly an "inside" that Able was not a part of. He
found himself drifting on the currents of the river of memory, just
another ghost, his ties to the physical severed without
warning.
"Wait!" he shouted.
But Adam King wasn't listening.
As he'd said, he had a King to kill, and it seemed he could do it
without Able Quirk.
HUNTING PARTY
Owen woke up and pain ran
instantly through his shattered eye socket like a bolt of
lightning. He didn't scream this time, but only because Taylor had
stuffed a dirty rag into his mouth. He felt it pushing against the
back of his throat, threatening to choke him if he struggled too
much. His hands were both cuffed now, his arms tight into the small
of his back, a metal pipe digging in between his shoulder blades.
Taylor hadn't needed to secure his ankles, White's busted leg was
numb now and stubbornly refused to move. There was an awkward kink
in it that shouldn't have been there and White knew that it was
only numb as an alternative to hurting like all hell. Crippled,
tied, gagged, White's one remaining eye swivelling manically in its
socket, scanning his surroundings.
He was at the same intersection
that he had been. The detective in him slipped into crime scene
mode and noted the absence of his eyeball. No sign of Taylor, but
the trap was clearly set. His screams, that would bring them.
Cops without a family became a
family. That was the mistake, the flaw in the plan. The blood shed
on the streets made bonds of its own.
Owen twisted his head towards
the sound of gunfire. Three shots at a time. Pop pop pop, pop pop
pop. It was Rogers, it had to be. The guy's aim was like nothing
White had ever seen, and he always shot in threes. Two in the
chest, one in the head. Two in the chest, one in head. White
ink, staining everything that it touched. On her knees, she looked
up at Adam.
"I can help you."
"No, Grace, all you can do is
help yourself. You're a parasite too. You've lived off my family
for generations, weaving us all into your story, keeping yourself
alive through us."
Adam swung the pipe again,
hitting Grace in the torso, lifting her bodily up from the floor.
She came down hard, her head slamming against the hard concrete
floor.
"How many years, Grace? How
many different Kings have you taken to your bed to bear their
children? How long have you been using us?"
Grace struggled to her feet. A
cut above her eye was leaking more dark, inky blood down her face.
Her tattoos were slipping towards it, and towards the gash in her
knee, leaking out across her skin. Rats, leaving a sinking ship.
Looking down at herself, she tried to scoop them up, smearing
handfuls of ink across her flesh. She was shrinking, and ageing,
before Adam's eyes.
"Since the beginning," replied Grace, her voice no longer
the soft and self - assured purr that it
had been, but now the cracked cackle of a crone. "There were no
Kings before me. I started this whole story. I started your story
too, my son."
"Whore," Adam replied flatly,
and brought the pipe down onto Grace's head so hard that it split
cleanly in two almost to her nose. She dropped to her knees, a
sound like wind leaving her, before she fell face first to the
floor. Underneath her, the ink that had been her blood moved like a
flat fish, slithering and sliding across the floor until it found a
crack and started to ooze its way to freedom.
"What was she?" asked Able,
unaccustomed to speaking like this inside his own head.
"A story," replied Adam. "Maybe
the oldest story there is."
"She called you 'son'"
"Long story."
"Are you really Adam King? What
are you doing in my head?"
"Longer story still. I'll tell
you everything later. Right now, we've got a King to kill."
Able Quirk felt the thing he
called Magpye stir, somewhere deep in the undercurrents of his
shared mind. The ghosts, to a dead man, lay silent. Able felt
Adam's mind close, folding over on itself so that, without warning,
there was suddenly an "inside" that Able was not a part of. He
found himself drifting on the currents of the river of memory, just
another ghost, his ties to the physical severed without
warning.
"Wait!" he shouted.
But Adam King wasn't listening.
As he'd said, he had a King to kill, and it seemed he could do it
without Able Quirk.
HUNTING PARTY
Owen woke up and pain ran
instantly through his shattered eye socket like a bolt of
lightning. He didn't scream this time, but only because Taylor had
stuffed a dirty rag into his mouth. He felt it pushing against the
back of his throat, threatening to choke him if he struggled too
much. His hands were both cuffed now, his arms tight into the small
of his back, a metal pipe digging in between his shoulder blades.
Taylor hadn't needed to secure his ankles, White's busted leg was
numb now and stubbornly refused to move. There was an awkward kink
in it that shouldn't have been there and White knew that it was
only numb as an alternative to hurting like all hell. Crippled,
tied, gagged, White's one remaining eye swivelling manically in its
socket, scanning his surroundings.
He was at the same intersection
that he had been. The detective in him slipped into crime scene
mode and noted the absence of his eyeball. No sign of Taylor, but
the trap was clearly set. His screams, that would bring them.
Cops without a family became a
family. That was the mistake, the flaw in the plan. The blood shed
on the streets made bonds of its own.
Owen twisted his head towards
the sound of gunfire. Three shots at a time. Pop pop pop, pop pop
pop. It was Rogers, it had to be. The guy's aim was like nothing
White had ever seen, and he always shot in threes. Two in the
chest, one in the head. Two in the chest, one in head. White
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