Chapter Five

Atlanta at night, so different from Farren’s old home: lights, cars, noise. The city never stopped, no matter what time of day or night, though the hectic pace slowed a bit after sundown. A yellow sun. Still weird even after ten years of basking in its warmth.

The stars were different here. And only one moon. How odd to look up at night and not see three.

He strolled down a nearly deserted street, listening to the beat of his footfalls on the sidewalk, interspersed by beeping from a nearby crossing light. There were no sidewalks back home. Or asphalt. Also, no car exhaust polluting the atmosphere. Sometimes, a moth caught in a streetlight’s glow evoked thoughts of a flitter. No, not a flitter here, though fireflies were similar. If fireflies were as large as his hand.

Not exactly the same thing, but close enough for him to pretend.

Home. Family. Friends. Gone now. So much loss. Nobody would be waiting for him if he somehow returned, anyway.

Which he couldn’t.

But he could remember and honor the loss deep within.

Longing for his parents’ words of wisdom, their good-natured fussing—his sibling’s teasing. His lover’s embrace. And a purple sky. Remembering better days.

The city was quieter at night than during the day, darker, with plenty of time to lose himself in his thoughts. No one judged him here on the streets or viewed him with suspicion, though the heavily tattooed biker on the corner sized him up as a likely target.

Farren pulsed bad idea at the man, who turned and scampered the other way.

The hair on Farren’s arms rose, and he froze, shifting his focus to the left, then right. The goosebumps gave way to the sensation of crawling skin. A portal? Here? Now?

Farren turned down a side street, guided by his body’s reactions. Something had come over. Either he’d find a disoriented soul with no idea where they were, an opportunistic parasite, or a shocked entity summoned away from their normal life to serve some nefarious purpose.

Summoning rarely worked the way many humans thought and often left the summoner with a blubbering mess of an individual who just wanted to go home.

The second option, the reason Farren walked the street at night, scared him the most. The portal couldn’t be more than a week old. While the traveler might stick close to its point of origin, more often than not, they got their bearings and distanced themselves.

By sacrificing someone from this world. Willing hosts were one thing, unwilling hosts another thing entirely.

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.

Where were those damned ambulances?

Farren cast his mind out, mapping the scene: where the cop had stood, where the occisor was when he fired. No need for measurements. He could clearly see every movement, every footstep. Farren observed two guns nearby, noting their locations, the number of rounds fired, and the number remaining.

The cop’s gun would need returning.

Sirens fast approached. Flashing lights reflected off windows as the ambulance backed down the alley. Radios crackled. Farren stood, directing the ambulance when to stop.

Two travelers hopped out of the vehicle, though their appearance gave nothing of their true nature away to humans. A Nutrix and a Dux. A healer and someone incapable of getting lost. Good. Both appeared to be young men, the Nutrix dark-complected, the Dux fair. Neither would draw much attention. Paramedics. Even after ten years in this realm, Farren sometimes slipped, thinking in terms of his old home. Within this realm, they were paramedics, though those terms didn’t quite encompass the full scope.

“Talk to me,” the Nutrix said in a language unknown to Terrans, grunting as he settled the much larger cop onto a gurney as though he weighed nothing.

“An occisor attacked him.” Farren rose, still holding the cop’s hand, and gestured toward the motionless form. “The human shot him, so the occisor tried to take possession of the human’s body.”

The Nutrix winced and gazed down while raising the gurney. “He must be one tough son of a bitch to withstand an occisor. What happens to the occisor?”

“We’ll transport him to the compound. Try to ascertain what he knows.” Farren shrugged. “Then I’ll banish him.”

“If it tried to force possession, you really don’t have a choice.” The Nutrix joined the Dux to lift the gurney into the back of the ambulance.

The cop struggled, thrashing and clinging to Farren’s hand. “No!”

The Nutrix exchanged a quick glance with Farren, retrieved supplies from the ambulance, and hooked the cop to an IV. He emptied a syringe into the port. The cop relaxed, opening his hand and releasing Farren.

Farren flexed his fingers. Detective Morrisey James had an extraordinary grip.

Two other vehicles waited at the mouth of the alley. One, the ambulance for the fallen occisor, was especially equipped to handle the situation. Farren held up a finger to the Nutrix. “Can you give me a minute? I have to speak with the boss. I’m going with you to the hospital.”

“Sure. The patient doesn’t seem to be in immediate danger. Once he wakes up, we’ll need to determine what he saw and go from there.”

Which could become quite messy.

Farren jogged past the second ambulance to a waiting car, motioning for the driver to lower the window. The moment he did, Farren gave a brief report. “Boss, we have an injured host I doubt can survive.”

“Possessed by?”

“Occisor.”

“Fuck. Poor bastard. What do you know so far?”

“The occisor attacked a cop, police detective Morrisey James of Atlanta PD. James is unconscious right now. The occisor couldn’t get in.”

Surprise filled the boss’s voice. “Really? I expect a full report first thing tomorrow. Go on. We take it from here.”

“There are two guns, one belonging to James. He only fired one shot. He’ll want that back.” If he survived. “I’ve got details and will get a report to you tomorrow.”

After a final nod toward the car, Farren jogged toward the ambulance holding the cop. He climbed in and found an out-of-the-way spot near the Nutrix. The Dux closed the door with a decisive thunk before assuming his position behind the wheel.

Detective James lay still. So still. Farren had never known someone to throw off an occisor attack. Had the battle done permanent damage?

The ambulance pulled out of the alley, lights flashing and siren wailing.

The Nutrix busied himself seeing to the cop’s comfort. “I’m giving him a human remedy for pain to ease as much discomfort as possible without raising too much suspicion. Even so, I’m betting he’ll have a mother of a headache. You said he won a fight with an occisor. Or did you get there in time?”

“He was winning.” Barely, but still.

The Nutrix’s mouth dropped open. “How?”

“Look at his aura.”

The Nutrix studied the cop’s face and then blew a low whistle. “Wow. Dark. You reckon he’s a Tenebris?”

Tenebris. Darkness. An unreadable, unpredictable entity. “I don’t know. He seems pure human to me.”

The Nutrix stared at the cop again, brow furrowed. “Yeah, he does. What happens when he wakes up?”

“If he wakes up.” Farren inwardly shuddered at how doubtful the possibility might be. “Then we’ll have to convince him he didn’t see what he thought he saw. If he saw anything.” Standard procedure. This Morrisey James guy being a cop presented another option, though.

Anyone who could fight off an occisor might prove useful.

James appeared oblivious to the conversation, not that he’d understand Farren’s native tongue. The detective wasn’t model handsome, with a skin tone Farren had heard described as olive. Sculptured nose, if the sculptor liked them big, with a gangly build. Not someone you’d notice twice on the street.

Making him even more valuable.

Maybe Farren should invite Morrisey James into the fold.

If he survived with his mind intact.