Soulwalker

To Em, Jane, Andi, and Nann for being my guiding lights.

This is a work of fiction.  All characters, locales and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

S
OULWALKER

Copyright © 2012 by Erica Lawson

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, save for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

Cover design by Ann Phillips

A Blue Feather Book
Published by Blue Feather Books, Ltd.

www.bluefeatherbooks.com

ISBN: 978-1-935627-83-8

First edition: January, 2012

Printed in the United States of America and in the United Kingdom.

Chapter 1

It was a beast of a night.

The rain was incessant, the wind bitterly cold, and the darkness deep—a night best left to those creatures that thrived in the worst of weather, creatures that had no need for the light.

In the middle of the downpour strode a lone figure, head bent against the driving drops. The mysterious figure cast no shadow as it moved amid the puddles of water on the sidewalk. It appeared to be nothing more than a black shape in the muted shadows of the night. The shrouded head looked up for a moment, turned this way and that, and bowed its head again to continue the journey.

The streets were all but empty, except for this one soul who defied the fury of nature to venture out. But nature had little effect on this creature that wandered the streets with impunity. The figure, focused on its destination, barely acknowledged the maelstrom that raged around it.

No ordinary whim drove the shadow through this hell. It had a grave purpose that would brook no denial. Neither the elements nor the night would divert it from its course. It had only one mistress, and it was to her that it deferred its will. For without her it had no will, no thought, and no existence.

The storm showed no signs of abatement, instead it seemed a physical manifestation of the shadow that passed through it. But it had no emotional connection to this maelstrom. The shadow was a tool and nothing more.

The creature reached the building where the object of its purpose lay. With ghostly eyes it looked upward and studied the half dozen floors. It made its way toward the entrance, then changed direction at the last minute to find another, more shadowed, way in.

Instead of scaling the outside of the building, the shadow opted for the emergency exit. It slid up into the dimness near the ceiling to the fourth floor. It oozed along its path, found all the nooks and crannies that housed the night, and avoided the blinding flash of light: for that’s where it existed… in the dark. It was a dark creature for a dark night.

Finally it reached its destination. It eased through a crack in the door and entered the darkened apartment. Hollow eyes scanned the blackness, easily seeing everything as if in the light of day.

Find him. Kill him.

The words resonated through its form. It had learned and memorized those words many times in the past and had carried out the order in the name of the government.

He was where it had expected to find him, asleep in bed. The creature stood over its intended victim for a moment before it extended an invisible hand slowly toward the man’s chest. The hand continued through skin, muscle, and bone until it rested under the heart. Its almost nonexistent palm could feel the steady pumping action as the muscle expanded and contracted. Slowly and steadily the hand closed, putting pressure on the heart to stop. The man didn’t stir from his sleep as the assassin’s ghostly hand continued to squeeze, tightening until the heart could no longer function.

The shadow confirmed the kill. The victim lay there as if peacefully asleep. No one would ever know how he died.

The shadow retreated. It was time to return to its mistress, answering the lonely call of its sister’s soul.

Covered in sweat, the trooper tossed and turned, her mind working frantically to bring her warrior home. She could see, feel, and hear every move it made in her mind’s eye; it was part of her. Her inner warrior had performed its task and was now returning to rest until next time. Next time… how many times would she be called upon to carry out this duty?

When she had joined the Special Black Shadow Corps, little did Tarris Waite suspect that she would effectively be a shadow assassin. “Serve your country,” the Council said. “You have a special gift that no one appreciates,” they said. What a sap she had been. If she refused, she would be the next victim of one of her fellow warriors. Serve or die. She was trapped.

When it all began, she had little choice about what her vocation would be. Her special abilities had drawn the attention of the Union, as their reigning government was called, and opened doors that were firmly closed for everyone else. Of course, she had one physical attribute that earmarked her for the SBSC. She was an albino.

Tarris soon found out why only an albino could serve in the Corps. Her kind nurtured the inner shadow, expelling the soul to carry out the wishes of its master or, in her case, its mistress. From what she could tell, only a few albinos served the Council and even fewer female albinos. What had started as a glorious career in the service of the law had turned into something more sinister; something she no longer wanted to be part of.

Her shadow crept toward her, and Tarris prepared to accept it back into her body. The transfer took place as the dark shape seeped through pale skin and bone to reside in a disabled body that could no longer walk. How ironic was that? Tarris had a mind that could command an assassin, yet she couldn’t move her own legs.

“Rya…” she whispered. Tarris was born a twin, though she never had the chance to know her sister who died at birth. But she could always feel her sister’s spirit inside her. She was a friend when needed and a shoulder to cry on. The child had been named Ryalla at her burial because no child should be sent on to the afterlife without a name. So Tarris called her shadow Rya, in place of the twin she had never gotten to know.

Tarris opened her almost colorless eyes, and her pupils contracted in the light from the bedside lamp. She was drained and in pain. Pushing Rya through the heavy rain took more energy than she had imagined. Her fingers went to her wrist, and she gently rubbed the area over the pulse point. She closed her eyes, not bothering to move, and allowed the medicated patch sitting under her skin to do its work. She put aside all her concerns and would worry about it tomorrow.

*   *   *

Tarris blinked. The sun was out. It had been so long since it had graced the city that she had forgotten what it looked like. Gentle rays lay over her bedcover and showed how old the coverlet was. As much as she wanted to stay put, dismiss the day, and drown in a sea of medicated sleep, she had a meeting to go to this morning. She reached overhead to the wall to find the familiar button. A gentle whirr tilted the bed and allowed her to slide into the waiting wheelchair.

Some days she hated life. On those days, depression hung around her like a bad smell. The bad thoughts were just there, always reminding her of her disability. What she wouldn’t give to be able to walk unaided, to run, and just to be like everyone else out in the street. Quickly and efficiently the motorized chair moved around, while electronic aids helped her dress, bathe, and eat. Nothing was simple anymore. Hands were only useful these days for pushing buttons.

As much as she dreaded it, she donned her disguise. As she stood in the metal body harness, she changed her hair color and eyes. Dark replaced light in an effort to blend in. She hated this, she really did, but society feared who she was. While her fellow Corps members revelled in their identity, she did not. If she wanted to move about freely it was necessary.

As she stepped out into the sunlight, Tarris pushed her temple to darken the lenses in her eyes. Sensitive to the point of pain, her pale eyes needed to be shielded from the glare, and she used the sun-protective lenses to compensate. Because she used the body suit only when she had to, it took a number of steps before she became accustomed to it once more. One of the older models, it caused her some pain, but its use was the price she paid not to be heckled.

She moved steadily through the crowded streets and made her way downtown to an unremarkable building. Gray, metallic and windowless, it screamed of mystery, but very few approached it like she was doing now. A small glass panel appeared in the wall, and she had to touch her temple to show her true eye color. Her iris was scanned, and the nearly invisible door slid silently aside to permit her entrance.

Inside the walls, she dropped her disguise. Dark hair became light once more, allowing her long blonde locks to flow freely over her black-leather overcoat. Her pale eyes looked into the darkness and sought out the exit at the other end of the shadowed corridor. Barely a whisper could be heard from her body suit as servos and gears worked seamlessly to mechanically walk her down the passageway. Powered by two small atomic battery packs, the suit was surprisingly effective despite being nearly an antique. But the newer models had their problems, and she was happy to stay with the old suit and its little quirks, much to the derision of the other members of the group.

“It took you long enough.” Her main competitor, Alix Corman, made a quick comment on her arrival. “Did you have to crawl all the way?” The two troopers seated next to him snickered loudly.

Tarris noted his negligent disregard of her and how his lips curled in a sneer. He was tall, thin, and arrogant, although the arrogance was his primary characteristic. Apparently Corman wore his dark clothes as a visual deterrent; the blackness drew attention to his white hair and pale skin and showed everyone how dangerous he was.

Tarris’s blonde eyebrows met in a scowl, and she took a step forward. She looked down into Corman’s eyes, but he wasn’t intimidated. “Shut your mouth, Corman.”

“Did you hear a squeak?” he asked his cohorts. “It sounded like a mouse.”

Tarris bunched her hands into fists and felt Rya stir within her. The hair on Corman’s skin stood up on end. Assuming Corman saw the stirring, Tarris didn’t stop it. Rya took exception to her treatment at the hands of the egotistical blowhard facing her.

Corman’s eyes widened and he closed his mouth. He lounged lazily over the chair, however, and refused to move his feet to let Tarris pass. He gazed at her and smirked. He was daring her to step over.

She touched her belt, and her leg shot out and connected with his ankle. As she passed, she shoved him and his chair rocked back. He regained his balance and tangled his foot with hers. Tarris sprawled on the ground, and there was a collective gasp. Each trooper looked from one to the other, but no one moved.

Finally, Shark stepped forward and placed his hands under her armpits. He lifted gently, and when she had gained her balance, he let go and backed away. Corman gave her a sly grin. “Can’t lift your leg on your own? Maybe you should get yourself one of those gravity pods. It’s got to be quicker than that clumsy thing you wear. No wonder you’re always late.” He flicked his hand in the air as though to dismiss her. He always wanted to have the final word, but one day she hoped to collect every nasty word he uttered and ram them down his throat.