Kelly Gay: The Darkest Edge of Dawn

Hank knelt next to me, intelligent eyes scanning the body. “She looks mummified.” He placed two hands on her neck. “That’s odd—she’s still warm.”

A rush of hope blew through me. “I’ll call Liz.” I jumped up, removing the gloves as I walked away, mentally praying that this was the break we needed.

A few steps in, I froze, the hairs on my arms standing straight, instantly gripped with the sense that something new had made its way into the warehouse, something that brought with it the scents of the darkness outside.

A low growl confirmed my suspicions.

I spun slowly on my heel to see two red orbs approaching from the shadowed side of the debris pile. Hank was on one side of the body and the hellhound on the other.

I let the gloves fall to the floor. My hand moved for my Nitro-gun. Hank eased up, inch by inch, to his full height, his arm slowly going back for his weapon.

The hellhound stepped forward.

Jesus, it was huge. Bald, gray head hung low between muscled shoulders, muzzle drawn back in a snarl.

This was its territory. Now the carnage made sense. It had been feeding on these discarded victims.

And Hank was standing over its freshest meal yet, directly in my line of fire.

I pulled my weapon. The whisper to tell him to get out of the way was on my tongue, but I dared not. The slightest move or sound could trigger an attack. Hank’s thumb flicked the snap to the holster strap. I winced. It might as well have been a bomb going off. Shit.

The hellhound leapt.

“Hank!”

His half-drawn weapon clattered to the ground as the hellhound slammed into him. They fell to the floor, the hound’s teeth snapping inches from Hank’s face. “Shoot it, Charlie!” His big hands squeezed the beast’s jowls, holding it at bay.

I ran to the side, trying to get a line for a clean shot. “I’m trying!”

“Try harder, for Christ’s sake!”

I ran closer to the debris pile, my attention so fixed on the two that I tripped over a small piece of plywood, landing hard on my hands and knees. The hellhound lifted its head and stilled—perfect time to shoot it if I hadn’t been on all fours, the wood angled between my calves.

The wide nostrils flared intensely. In and out.

Oh shit.

I rolled, kicking out the board and then scrambling to my feet, adrenaline firing as Hank’s warning shout echoed through the warehouse. I didn’t look back, didn’t have to. I just ran, arms pumping, leaping over debris and trying to get a lead so I could turn and fire.

Too late, though. No one could outrun such a creature.

Paws landed on my shoulder blades. Warm, moist breath breezed across the back of my neck an instant before my face met the floor. I struck with at least two hundred pounds of hellhound on my back, every ounce of air forced from my lungs as my forehead smacked the concrete with a loud crack. Pain surged over my skull like a shockwave—hot, consuming pressure that stunned me for several seconds and stole my vision.

Wet jowls smacked eagerly, the sound of an eating frenzy that finally terrorized some sense into me and made me gasp for what little air my squished lungs could hold. It had straddled me, paws on floor, belly grazing my back, and its muzzle nudging and pressing and licking my neck. I closed my eyes bracing for the killing bite …

… that never came.

No fangs, no broken skin, no scent of blood; just an intent, slobbery licking at the back of my neck, drool running down both sides.

And then it hit me. Of course. Brimstone. Sonofabitch! I had a rescued hellhound living in my house. Brimstone’s scent must be all over me … at least to the beast on my back it was. Slowly, I lifted my aching head and rolled slightly to look over my shoulder, but a bright flash stopped me cold. Everything became suspended, but my mind burst with color. Colors that soon became images …

Hank behind the beast …

Firing …

Four small fetuses curled within the womb of this terrifying animal …

And then just as quickly as it came, the vision ended and reality rushed back in, the yell already in my throat. “Don’t kill it!” I didn’t need to look beyond the beast to know my partner’s dark silhouette was already there, weapon raised for a clean shot. “Low stun, Hank! Don’t kill it!”

A nitro capsule sank into the beast’s hip to the sound of Hank’s curse. She leapt straight up, yelped, and bounded away, each stride becoming slower and slower as the nitro spread through her muscle. It didn’t take long before she fell onto her side, her distended belly pushed skyward and her entire torso rising and falling in quick pants.

The cold would paralyze her long enough to figure out a plan of action, but it wouldn’t kill or damage her permanently. No doubt the healing process was already beginning—something all off-worlders, beings and animals alike, were blessed with. Pump too much nitro into a Charbydon, though, and no amount of natural healing would help. They were particularly sensitive to the cold, just as most Elysians had a severe reaction to high frequency sound waves.

I rolled from my side onto my back, staring up at the dark ceiling and taking several more deep breaths to calm my pulse. That’s when my sense of smell kicked in, and my gut clenched into a hard, sour ball at the foul, rot-scented saliva encasing my neck and dampening strands of my hair. Nice.

“Goddamn, Charlie,” Hank said, stunned. “You okay?” He reached down with an outstretched hand.

“Peachy, thanks. Who wouldn’t love a tongue bath from a hellhound feeding on body parts?” I slapped my hand in his and let him pull me to my feet, realizing my words only made me more nauseous.

Once upright, dizziness swamped me and pain stabbed my brain in hot pulses. “Fuck.” I squeezed Hank’s hand and bent over as bile stung the back of my throat and the mother of all migraines descended.

“Breathe.” Hank peeled my fingers away from his hand. “You can heal now, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, right.” My response came between small, quick breaths. “That’s a little hard to do when your breakfast is about to come back up.” I closed my eyes as his footsteps retreated toward the direction of the hellhound, using the time to refocus and reach beyond the pain.

Hank was right. Thanks to my new genetic make-up, I had the ability to heal courtesy of both the Elysian and Charbydon DNA that now ran through my system. Double whammy—and something those in my small circle of friends believed made me indestructible. Of course, there was the little problem of figuring out how to use those abilities. Unlike my partner, it wasn’t second nature for me to heal or manipulate the natural energy that existed all around us. It took concentration and effort. Two things that were kind of hard to do when you’re in pain and about to barf.

“Here.”

A cloth hit me on the left side of the face, bringing with it a burst of machine oil aroma. I straightened and pulled the old work rag off my shoulder. It was better than nothing to wipe the slime off the back of my neck. I tucked the rag between my knees, twisted my disheveled hair and then tied it into a knot, my band lost in the hellhound lovefest. Then I set to work slowly wiping the slobber from my skin, eyes closed, and focusing on sending healing messages to my aching head.

Cool breezes. Laughter. Peace. Joy. Love. Strong emotions that I tapped into, that gathered in my chest with each long, controlled inhale until a faint tingle spread out in all directions. My toes wiggled in response. Once the healing energy was alive within me, I zeroed in on my head, pulling the energy up, directing it, and letting it take over.