Revenant (A Zoe Martinique Investigation, Band 4) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Phaedra Weldon was born in Florida and attended Georgia Southern University from where she launched a career in the graphics arts field. She began writing at the age of 10, reworking the endings of her favorite television shows, especially such classic favorites as Scooby Doo. She has had short fiction published in a number of anthologies and online sites. She lives with her husband and daughter in Atlanta, Georgia.

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1Superman makes this shit look easy.

Flying, I mean. Just points his beefy hand out with a mightyfist and away he goes. Up, up, up. I do the same and crash into—through—and past a building. I guess this is a good thing since Idon’t actually break anything in the process. No bones or concrete.

Though that last condo I blasted through had some seriouslyquestionable stuff happening in that middle unit—was that a cato’-nine-tails I saw? I tumbled out and put the brakes on, backpedalingin midair as I concentrated on the darkened world, lookingfor the telltale signs of the Fetch I’d been chasing.

What’s a Fetch? Hell if I knew. The only intel I’d been given wasthat if I could catch them easily, I would graduate from grasshopperto padawan. Yes. I know. Mixing media here. It’s good practice,going after the small baddies. Gets me in shape for the big baddies,right?

What I did know about Fetches was what I’d read in theDioscuri notes the Society of Ishmael had let me read. Was stillreading.

Nasty little suckers. Really nothing more than a stray bit ofAbysmal essence discarded by its creator. They were a lot like Daemons,brought into existence to spy or do icky things. Some wereused as assassins. They weren’t given forms like me or you—butleft naked in a way so they could blend into their environment.This one’d been made out of office supplies—like an Office Depottransformer. And every time it’d gone through a wall, its accoutermentshad been ripped off, and then it’d pulled whatever else wasnearby to itself, giving it form again. Last time I checked—this onewas made of toilet paper—two-ply.

Oh—let me explain. My name’s Zoë—and you’d think I’d gettired of reintroducing myself. But see—I never know where peoplejoin the adventure. Or tragedy. Depends on how you look at it.

Martinique. Last name.

I’m a twentysomething former retail salesgirl turned Wraith.Wraith. That’s what I am. All because—and let me make sure Igot this straight in my own head—I was born an Irin, the child ofan angel, and was touched by the Abysmal plane.

Got that? Good, ’cause I ain’t repeating it.

“Hey—lover—” came a deep voice to my left. A voice thatrightfully belonged to a detective I knew but was being used by mycompanion at the moment. I was hovering as I got my bearings, myarms crossed over my chest, and turned my head to take a look atmy enemy, my nemesis, and the reason all this shit had happenedto me.

Let me introduce you to that part of the Abysmal plane I wastouched by.

The Archer. TC to me and my buddies. Trench Coat.

That would be the bald guy with sunglasses hovering to myleft. Not that he knew what would happen back then—or I. Butapparently we’re irrevocably linked together in all sorts of oogyways. Before he touched me, I could go out of body, or OOB asI called it. Astral projection. But then things changed—I changedwhen he marked me. I glanced at the light red hennalike tattoo ofhis handprint on my left wrist, could only imagine the streak ofwhite in my otherwise-dark Latina hair.

My being was now a miasma of both planes—existing as one.

Mutt.

This bastard next to me had kidnapped my mother’s soul. Andthen I lost my ability to OOB because of a spell my mom did whenI was a child. Because of this, my dual soul split down the middle.And the evil half of me possessed the man I loved.

Detective Daniel Frasier.

Love.

My . . . darker half drove him to do things against his nature.To kill. And enjoy it. The consequence of that was madness—andan undying passion to kill me.

He tried, but killed his captain instead. Kenneth Cooper.

That’s when I started seeing the skulls. Death masks. I’d seenthem before—on people—when they were about to die. Now I sawthem on everyone. I didn’t go out much anymore. Not in the daylight.I didn’t want to see them. Not anymore.

A week later, I learned I no longer needed to go OOB to goWraith. And Archer was there. Waiting on me.

Daniel was insane and committed to an asylum. Out of state.Away from me.

That’s my life experience. Getting one’s heart ripped out andstomped on a few times. Oh yeah—and condemning one’s soul.

Oh—but we haven’t confirmed that one yet. That whole condemnationthing. Seems to be one of those vague provisos in smallprint. In a language nobody speaks anymore. Except for Rhonda.And a guy named Dags.

Dags.

No, no, no . . . not going there. That boy is gone. Out of thecity. Out of my life. No thoughts to him. Nope. No, sireeee.

I moved a good one hundred feet or so above the reconstructionof the Bank of America Building. I sort of blew it up a month or soago when I rejoined with my darker half. The Abysmal part of me.The media said it was a tornado.

Man . . . my life’s so screwed up. Most women when they havea bad day throw clothes all over the floor. Me? I screw with construction.Can’t say it wasn’t my fault. Because it was.

TC moved closer to me, dressed in a long black trench coat,drivers’ gloves, and dark glasses, hovering eye level with me. VinDiesel—with a smirk. “I lost it.”

His smirk deepened. “Because you’re not looking.” He pointedpast me to my right. “There.”

I turned my entire body, my wings working independently tokeep me afloat in the air. I saw it, an iridescent paper-covered blobmoving below us, back into the building. I dove down after it, managedto go incorporeal long enough to move through the building’swalls, then through the offices, right on its tail.

Stay with it, TC said in my head. That was getting annoying.One of these little new things that kept cropping up since rejoiningwith my Horror self. Oh . . . might need to explain that too, huh?

Maniacal laughter echoed through the halls.

Uh, hold that thought.

Wasn’t sure if the laughter belonged to the Fetch—or somethingelse. The little fucker blasted past me and through a door atthe end of a long hall. I willed myself forward, imagining myselfas a bullet, and sieved easily through the door. Wood. Easier.Though . . . I always felt like I needed to pick splinters out of myteeth afterward.

I stopped abruptly. The thing wasn’t moving—just hovering inthe center of some schmuck’s office. A piece of toilet paper fell fromits body and drifted to the floor. In the darkness, the Fetch gloweda soft aqua green through the paper. Usually, whatever it attachesto itself forms into some sort of face—and this one was no exception.The paper looked as if it’d been moistened and molded intosome old bald guy with a look of surprise. Made me think of a sandsculpture on the beach.

A beat later, I realized the face wasn’t looking at me, but up ata point above my head. It looked as if it wanted to scream, to boltout of there—but it was frozen in place.

Every Wraithy hair on my back and arms shot up as I was overcomewith the freaky factor—

There was something behind me. Above me. Something thisFetch was so scared of it couldn’t move.

TC—

Get out of there! came his reply in my head—his response soloud I felt it reverberate against my skull.

I turned just as something struck the side of my head, the forcesending me to the right of the Fetch and into the wall—oops—I’dforgotten to go incorporeal. But then—I was a little preoccupiedwith whatever it was...