Shapeshifter Ch. 07

Then nothing.

**Noom**

Ah, the blazes of hell. How I had longed to be in this place, this moment! The DeLargo Palace was aflame, burning from its wretched foundation to its tainted roof, raining ashes and spitting embers as the fire did its work and consumed it, shingle by shingle, beam by beam. I hadn't taken into account that the grenades might cause a fire, but I couldn't have planned it better, had I known.

This was plan D, the one version I hadn't hoped to dream of; unfortunately, it came with its own problems. Listening to Mike's descriptions of movement inside as he kept his scope pointed at the windows, I had blown up the kitchen end of the house first. As soon as I'd been sure that Kel was somewhere else, I had done the same with the living room side of the estate, driving the security guards from here to there like some sick game of 'ring around the Rosie'. Mike picked them off one by one for as long as possible, but it didn't take them long to understand what was happening and to retreat to the front side of the building where we couldn't reach them as easily.

By now, police, S.W.A.T., and the fire department were probably halfway here. I had to hurry.

I was creeping along the back wall of the villa, away from the main bulk of guards trying to hide from Mike's sniper skills, when I saw one lone guard check out the hole I had blasted into the kitchen patio. He didn't notice me, but he was looking at something inside the house. Even his side profile looked surprised at whatever he was seeing, but I got a really bad feeling when he pulled his gun.

"Shoot him!" someone yelled inside the burning building; I didn't wait to find out who was supposed to be shot, though. I pointed my own gun and splattered the guard's brains all over the singed lawn, stumbling a bit from the unexpected recoil and running towards the opening before he hit the grass. Whatever was going on inside, my guts told me that it wasn't good and that I had to be quicker, faster, than ever before. Not that the urgency managed to smother my shit-eating grin; I just couldn't wipe it off my face.

As I reached the edge of the broken wall, I saw two things: Kel running towards me, and further back, the man I had been hunting for three years, standing amidst smoke, embers and flames and pointing a gun at Kel's back. There was no time to call out, no time to think.

Theodore DeLargo shot his son.

A split second later, I shot him.

Whoever says that revenge won't change anything is lying.

The old fart fell down with a piercing scream, that wounded sound only people make who never have felt real pain. At this distance, the bullet had broken his shoulder and probably ricocheted through his chest, but he wasn't dead, yet. I planned to make sure he wouldn't survive the night, but Kel was also hit; no amount of satisfaction compared to the idea of losing him.

I kept my Beretta pointed at Theo's prone body as I crept towards Kel, just in case he decided to jump up and have at it in a last ditch effort. The old man tried to crawl away, but there was too much fire; his escape route was cut off. I crouched down next to Kel, feeling for his pulse and finding it too fast, too strong for a dying man, never taking my eyes off the one family member I actually wanted dead. Kel had said that nothing short of a bullet to the head— or decapitation— could kill him, and I believed that. I had seen him get shot and shake it off before. If I picked him up and ran, DeLargo would live to abuse another day. If I took a few minutes to finish the old man off, Kel would still come out of it alive.

We both had better chances at a happy life with Kel's father dead, so why was I stalling? Why was my palm sweaty and slick around the grip of my gun? Why, why, why was my heart beating like a machine gun against my ribs?

I picked up Kel and carried him out onto the lawn as fast as I could, placing him at a spot just outside the scorch marks on the grass. Even if I didn't make it out of that building, at least he would survive, no matter what. I petted Kel's head, sniffed and got up. I didn't want to leave him, not even for a minute, but that was exactly why I left him lying there. I couldn't become weak in the one situation I had worked so hard to get to. No way.

Theo was squirming, each breath a bubbling, wet rattle. His gun was nowhere to be seen, but he blindly grabbed around anyway, searching for something that couldn't be found. His eyes wandered over me, but there was no recognition in his face. He had never seen me before. He probably didn't even know what his lackeys had done to my girlfriend.

I wanted him to know what his money had done, so he'd know why he'd go to hell, no matter what.

Pulling out the business card with his name on one side, I crouched down, placing a knee on his bloody chest to keep him from crawling away. I held the card in front of his face, then slowly turned it around to show him the handwritten note on the back.

"Remember this?" I asked, still grinning like a madman, my voice much too calm. I had no idea what I was feeling, but it didn't matter.

Theo gasped and his eyes started to roll wildly. "Whatever happened, it wasn't me! I swear it wasn't me!"

"Of course it wasn't you, personally, you idiot," I barked, poking the corner of the card into his eye. He twitched and whimpered; I grinned wider. "But you are the scourge, the root of evil, the one who paid those who killed my girlfriend, the one who hid them from the police, who bailed them out and bribed lawyers and judges to look away. You are the snake's head, and you know the old saying, right?"

Theo tried to hit me with his one good arm, but ended up merely flailing around and coughing up blood. I put more weight on his chest, pinning him more securely as I brought up my gun and pointed it at his panic-stricken face.

"Any last words?"

"Wait! Wait! I can tell you who killed your girlfriend! I didn't have anything to do with it, but I know who might!" The mighty CEO was wailing by now, gasping with fear. I liked it.

"You're not getting out of this, Theo," I sneered. A calmness settled in my chest, an empty, soft, dark vastness that swallowed every emotion, every doubt I might have had, leaving nothing behind.

"Wait! There's a cleaner I employ, he did all the killing jobs for me! He's a psychopath and serial killer, it's him you want, not me! He's some Romanian called Siccu, you have to believe—"

I shot him, careful to keep the bullet's trajectory on a slight angle instead of shooting right through his skull. Sometimes, people survived shots to the head because the bullet went right through the middle, between the brain lobes, instead of damaging something vital. I made sure to turn everything vital into mush.

When I was sure Theo wouldn't rise from the dead, I stood up, brushing clumps of blood and brains from my arms, and hurried back to Kel. Somewhere in the distance, a miasma of wailing sirens closed in on us and Mike's sporadic pot-shots had ceased completely. It was now or never, or rather, run to freedom now, or end up hand-cuffed to a table.

I picked Kel up from the ground and ran for the hills towards the east, ducking into the underbrush surrounding the burning building.

~*~

The hole in the fence was off the main road, at a spot overgrown with hedges. Blue and red lights danced over the silhouettes of trees and fence posts, but all the cars passed us by, none the wiser to our existence. I dragged my scrap out into the wilderness behind the fence, as soon as the last fire truck sped down the road to the DeLargo estate, then I shouldered him and jogged the last few yards towards Mike's car.

Kel was still bleeding, but only a little. He moved and gasped as I put him on the backseat, coughing and rolling to his side with a pained moan.

"He alive?" Mike asked and pulled away from the side of the road as soon as I was buckled in. He drove like a grandma, but it kept attention away from us.

"Through-and-through again," I said, baring my teeth at nothing in particular. The need to take my lover to a hospital and have him fixed was like a weight on my neck; it was also a surefire way to get arrested, superhuman healing or not.

Mike signaled at the next intersection and drove towards one of the less popular bridges to the main land.

"What about his dear ol' dad?"

The question sent shivers down my back. I cackled, keeping my eyes on the landscape outside. "Dead. I smeared him."

"Good for you, man." Mike nodded, then frowned again. "Looks like you started quite the barbecue," he said, nodding towards his back mirror. I turned around in my seat and ducked, examining the bright, flickering patch of fire up the hill. I could see the fire truck lights even from here.

"A happy accident. I just hope we got all the guards who saw Kel go in, because if not, we'll have a hard time explaining how he got out untouched." And hiding at a known, corrupt P.I.'s house wouldn't look good in any circumstance. Mike's home was out of the question now, and my own home was booby-trapped. I'd need more time to disable the devices there, time I didn't have. I had to take care of Kel's wounds, because that was something I couldn't put on a back burner until it suited me. Then I had an idea.

"Mike, don't go back to your home, go to Central District, south edge of the park."

Taking his eyes off the road for a sideways glance, Mike signaled again and turned the car towards the main bridge. "What the hell do you want there?"

"Hide in plain sight." I grinned again. Killing Theo had put me in a high I wasn't coming down from any time soon. Furthermore, with him gone, nobody was looking for Kel and this meant I could safely take him to the one place left I could think of: his condo in Central District. It had security doors, cameras, retina scans and a damn fine TV-set, what more could a person ask for? A well-stocked first aid kit for one thing, but I readily bet my nuts Kel had half a hospital in his bathroom.

I learned a few new things about Central District security on our nerve-wracking trip back. For example, I hadn't known they registered car plates on the way into Evergreen Isles district and I only found out that they did when nobody even tried to slow us down at the checkpoint on our way out. We were almost stopped at the next one on the border to Central District, which would have put us in a difficult spot with me covered in blood and soot and Kel being shot and bleeding in the back, but some poor bugger in front of us held the guards up for so long, they just waved us through.

At Kel's high-rise, we ran into another problem. He didn't have his wallet anymore, so the only way in was through the fingerprint scan. Have you ever tried to hold up an unconscious, bleeding man in a luxury building to use his hand on a security lock and tried to make it look inconspicuous? It's all but impossible. Lucky for us, the security guard was asleep at his station, and we reached the elevator unmolested.

Mike stayed with me all the way to Kel's condo, helped me get him inside, and made me promise to call him as soon as things had quieted down. And not to call him if I ended up in prison, of course.

Then he left and I was suddenly alone.

**Kelaste**

The fire chased me into my sleep, filling my head with smoke and heat, screams and the groan of disintegrating wood. Even unconscious, I was afraid, so afraid of everything; it made the fever dreams so much worse. One nightmare chased another; figures in the dark, collapsing structures, my father, pointing his gun with a face void of any emotion other than disgust. Every time I started to wake up, pain welcomed me and sent me right back down into the depths of unconsciousness.

Sometimes there was someone else in bed with me, sometimes I was alone. I only noticed the other person because his scent drove away the ghosts, leaving me confused and exhausted, stumbling through muddled visions of shapeless landscapes and faceless people.

A few times I heard voices arguing, strangers who wanted things that Noom steadfastly declined, but their words didn't make sense to my delirious brain.

It took me a long, long time to realize that I hadn't been hurt enough to go through this much pain and agony. I had been shot before, but that hadn't made me delirious. So what was different, this time?

Heroin. I was detoxing after years and years of drug abuse, and Noom didn't realize it was happening. Or he did, and had decided against enabling me.

The first thing I consciously perceived was one of those fights Noom had with people I didn't know. I was lying in a comfy bed that smelled like home— Noom's, not mine, although one look around told me we were at my condo— and all the drapes around me were drawn shut. The twilight had a cave-like feel to it, which calmed me down. Caves meant security, a good hiding place to recuperate. The sheets were soaked in sweat and smelly, but I was too tired to move, so I just listened to the voices coming from the living room.

"Mr. Smith, I have been here four times in as many days, I think I have been patient enough. If you don't let me see Mr. DeLargo-Lagrada, I will be forced to notify the police!"

A male voice, slightly nasal, with lawyery, easy flowing speech. Cat-me was appeased, a lawyer was not an immediate threat.

"And I'm getting tired of repeating myself. I told you he's sick, I told you I'll call you as soon as he's better and I'm telling you now, even if I let you see him, he won't be able to talk to you, much less sign your precious papers!"

That was Noom, alright, albeit an unusually polite version of him. Either he was in trouble and trying to keep the damage to a minimum, or whatever that lawyer wanted was something good for him, or us. I actually didn't feel up to anything but lazing around, but on the small chance that Noom's refusal to let that guy see me could get us in trouble, I was willing to suffer a bit. Whatever that discussion was about couldn't be worse than cold turkey.

I tried to think of a good line to yell, but my brain wasn't cooperating and my throat hurt, so I kept it short.

"For god's sake, let him in!"

Okay, so it was more of a croak than a call, but they heard me nonetheless. Both of them stopped arguing, then two pairs of feet walked towards the bedroom door. Noom whispered something to our mutual guest, keeping his voice low enough that even with my superhuman hearing I couldn't understand him, then opened the door.

Both of them stood on the threshold, gaping as I hissed and scrambled away from the intruding light like a cockroach. Damn, my head really hurt! I buried my head beneath the sweat-drenched pillow, groaning softly as the spiking headache subsided.

"There, happy? One Mr. DeLargo, only slightly damaged," Noom sniped and grabbed lawyer guy's shoulder to stop him from walking into the bedroom. "And now go, please. I will call you as soon as he's well enough to actually talk to you." The man started to protest, but Noom shut the door fast enough to have the other man scramble back, reinstating the blessed darkness and solitude I had awoken to.

The argument went on in the living room, but I stopped paying attention to it. Feeling sick, tired, hungry, thirsty and anxious at the same time was enough of a task to keep me busy without eavesdropping. I dozed off almost instantly and only woke for a moment when Noom picked the pillow off my head and took my temperature.

The next time I opened my eyes, I felt considerably better. Sticky, numb, thirsty and hung-over, but awake and alert. It was a considerable improvement to the misery I half-remembered from the last few days, so I decided to find out what had been going on while I'd been out. The darkness behind the drapes told me that night had come and firmly established its grip on the Central District, and the soft rise and fall of murmuring from the living room gave me a hint where I'd find Noom. Strangely, I wasn't ready to go to him yet. My diaphragm fluttered with nerves at the sheer thought, like a virgin on prom night.

This wouldn't do. I had to get my footing back.

First, I checked my chest for the gunshot wound that was supposed to be there. A bandage was loosely wrapped around my ribcage and careful pressure let me know that I wasn't fully healed yet, so I left it alone. I wasn't squeamish with my own wounds, but I also knew from experience that damage healed better if I didn't poke at it unnecessarily.

Next, I put my legs on trial, swallowing the queasy bile rising up my throat. Judging by the searing burn in my esophagus, I had done quite a bit of vomiting in the last few days and hadn't had a chance to recuperate; my stomach was trying to decide if it approved of me standing up or not. I held on to the bed until the room stopped spinning, pondering if my body odor might be part of the reason I had a hard time not vomiting.

My head stopped hurting after a few moments, but it left me with that hung-over feeling I usually only got after a night of really good partying. I carefully let go of the bed and made my way to the bedroom door, lifting my arms for balance.

My bathroom was on the other side of the hallway leading to the living room. I shuffled inside, wrinkling my nose at the stench I carried with me, and turned on the water in my four nozzle shower. The bathroom was as big as my bedroom, with a shower, a bathtub with massage faucets, two sinks and too many counters for one person. It broke with the chrome-white-black design of my condo because I actually liked color and my dad hadn't had the nerve to dictate the style of my bathroom, too, after having done so with all the other rooms in my home. The counters and cupboards were brown and gray, the floor tiles black and the walls were cantaloupe orange. It was a horrible combination of colors, but I liked it exactly because of that.

I laid out two towels on the sink, carefully took off the bandage on my chest and stepped into the shower to wash away the grime. The familiar scent of my own beauty products managed to calm my stomach, but it took three rounds of lathering up and washing off to make me feel somewhat myself again. The wound on my chest wasn't that bad anymore, more of a crusty, reddened mess of slimy grooves than a gaping hole, but I was still careful not to let the washed off dirt accumulate there. I usually healed better and faster than this, but I needed food to do it and the detoxing had effectively separated me from nutrition.

I looked thinner than before, ribs and hip bones sticking out, my face gaunt like a that of a war refugee, but I didn't feel tired. My nerves prickled with waves of excitement, a need to burst into activity, to do something, anything for no other reason than not having to stand still any longer. It reminded me of my childhood, of the time before Heroin. God, I hoped I didn't have to live through a repeat performance of that time.

I pondered bandaging myself, like I had done a million times before, but decided against it. I still felt nervous about facing Noom, so I left my wound unbandaged to use as my excuse to face him again. I toweled my hair until it stopped dripping, hung up the towels to dry and crept back into the bedroom to put on a pair of black lounge pants.

I sneaked towards the living room like a burglar, peeked around the edge and took a few moments to simply watch him.

Noom had obviously taken it onto himself to give my condo a more lived-in feeling. The kitchenette was littered with cutlery, dishes put up to dry, pots that smelled like cold, fresh food and empty soda bottles, the living room was filled with smoky haze from the cigarettes he'd been smoking, and a collection of my DVDs was laid out on the coffee table in two piles. He had even opened my big-ass windows. I hadn't even known they could be opened, simply assuming that my father had made sure I couldn't jump out and cause him additional trouble.