Author's note: I haven't forgotten about this story. It's just been on the back burner for a while.
The crow flew south, and she followed.
She realized, with some trepidation, that the Skull Cowboy had been correct. She wasn't part of the living anymore. Running after the crow in the warm night, the thoughts that ran through her head were nothing more than her task at hand and her drive. She could remember healing Jade, but anything beyond that was slipping away. If she stopped and forced herself to remember, she would be all right.
It was frightening, and the most frightening part about it was that she really didn't seem to notice. Her humanity was slowly slipping away, and she had to consciously force herself to retain it.
What would happen when she couldn't do that anymore?
The crow brought her back to the store from which she had taken her clothing and weapon. No one was there yet. That surprised her; she would have figured someone would have noticed the place had been broken into by now. What would the crow want her to get here?
It landed on a hanger containing a short leather miniskirt and cawed. Alice scowled. Was even a crow sexist?
"No," Alice said shortly.
Unrelenting, the crow flapped its wings and flew over to a display of sheer thigh-highs. It eyed her again with those disturbingly intelligent eyes.
"From bad to worse," Alice told it. "You can wear those if you want. Wasn't ever my thing."
Camouflage, the crow spoke in her mind. Your next target has a taste for female flesh. You must get close to him before you can strike.
The idea was clear enough, but she didn't like it. She'd never been that kind of girl anyway, and she was, after all, dead. Strutting her stuff in a miniskirt and heels seemed to be not just distasteful but revolting; an act of reverse necrophilia. Hey, hey, check out the hottie dead chick.
This is the way, the crow said.
Alice sighed. "Fine," she said heavily. "You can make me do it, but you can't make me like it."
It didn't take too long to change. She grabbed a large purse hanging on a coatrack and stuffed her pants into it. Damn if she was going to strut around like this for one instant longer than she had to. Hopefully the damn bird would be satisfied. It felt obscene to be doing this, in more ways than one. She'd always hated nylons, and she'd never worn skirts anyway, let alone miniskirts. She felt uncomfortable and exposed. This wasn't hunter's garb.
She grabbed a pair of stiletto heels and put them on, expecting her feet to ache. They didn't. She was aware of being off balance, but there was no pain. That, too, had slipped away. She felt discomfort, but the hose didn't itch and the heels didn't hurt. Apparently, her invulnerability extended to any sort of pain.
The secret to wearing heels. Be dead, Alice thought sourly.
The crow cawed at her impatiently. She glared at it and then tiptoed out into the night.
It was shocking what the sinners could do.
Jason Thomaston had been a sinner himself, once. He had been through every shame that God could inflict on him before he had accepted the Truth. The Lambs of the Seven Seals had reached out to him in prison. He had written them, and they had helped him.
At one time, he'd been skeptical. What could these men do that others couldn't? How foolish he had been. The Reverend was far more than an ordinary man. He held the power of prophecy, and when the time was nigh, he would open the seventh seal and bring about Judgment Day.
There were those who said that the Reverend was cruel, abusive, the leader of a cult. They were wrong. The Reverend could be very forgiving. He had forgiven Jason his sins. He had cleansed Jason and made him whole. Now, Jason was one of the Warriors of the Way. He was a member of the elite, those who would be cleansed when the Reverend opened the Seventh Seal.
He was good at it, too. He kept the faithful in the flock, and sought out the heathens who would destroy their way of life. The Lamb of God needed warriors, and that was what he was.
But he was still a man, and a man had needs and wants. As a Warrior, he was allowed privileges that others were not. Reverend kept his flock close, so that they would not be tempted by sinful ways. Warriors had to go out and do battle with the heathens, and they needed to be more aware in the ways of the world.
On occasion, when called out to do battle for his lord, Jason would indulge his taste for womanflesh. It was easy to find loose women, and for twenty or thirty or fifty dollars they would satisfy his tastes. He usually liked the younger ones best.
The Reverend forgave him that, too. It was rumored that the Reverend shared that taste. Young women in the Lambs were occasionally called upon by the Reverend to provide him with womanly company. But, of course, the Reverend was above judgment. He was God's messenger.
Jason did not drink or smoke; he did not use drugs. No one in the Lambs was allowed to defile themselves with such things. He had before, in his previous life. But now he was a Warrior of the Way. All the same, the touch of a woman's thighs, her breasts, her flanks, her lips...that was a compelling addiction, and one he could not overcome. His visits to Houston had provided him with a dark place and willing women to slake that thirst. Trips into Houston had provided him with that opportunity.
Not now, though. The entire outreach office was ruined. Fire had consumed both the apartment in which John lived and the office below. John himself was in terrible shape. His arms had been not just broken but crushed. His ribs had been broken and he'd suffered a punctured lung. He was in the hospital now, in a dark morphine daze. Jason had tried to question him and find out what sinner, what heathen, what Babylonian had done this.
John had mumbled a crazy story about a woman who had come back from the dead. That was simple nonsense. Jesus had come back from the dead. Jason didn't doubt that Reverend could come back from the dead, but the idea that some woman could was crazy. Still, the other man's words haunted him. Death is coming. He'd repeated that over and over, reaching out with his shattered arms, his eyes deadened by narcotics and horror.
The things the heathens could do.
Jason glanced over the blackened remains in the office. Nothing of the holy truth they told remained. All the paper, all the brochures, everything they were trying to do had been destroyed. The portrait of Reverend that had been on the wall was ruined; a melted and darkened piece of glass protecting a charred square.
Someone would pay. He would see to it. Under no circumstance would this go unpunished. The righteous had the right to defend themselves against the heathens. So had Reverend said, and so it was.
As a Warrior of the Way, he was allowed some privileges that normal members of the flock were not. One of them was a cell phone, paid for by the Lambs. He took it out now and dialed a number. For a few moments, there was silence. Then the phone was picked up on the first ring. The rich, stentorian tones of his lord filled his ear.
"Yes," the Reverend said.
"Reverend, it's Jason. Someone trashed the outreach office. It's a total loss. John is in the hospital. They attacked him."
A moment of silence. "Heathens," Reverend said distastefully. "There's nothing they won't do. Do we know who did it?"
"No," Jason said. "The police are looking it over."
Reverend sighed. "They won't do anything," he said scornfully. "They are heathens too; they enforce the law of the heathen. See what you can find. If someone is attacking us, I mean to know who it is."
"Yes, Reverend," Jason said, and tilted his head. The fire had started from a pile of papers. He could see it in the office. Now, the blackened ash resembled an odd shape. Was it a misshapen cross? No; it looked more like...a crow.
"Get a hotel room in the city," Reverend instructed. "I want to know who did it. Keep on top of the police. See if you can find anything. Anyone lurking around the building...do what you have to. You understand how these sinners think."
Jason nodded. "You can count on me, Reverend," he said loyally. The Reverend hung up. Jason glanced around and sighed. There was nothing there for now.
He still had some former associates in the city, and they might be able to shake out some information for him. A lot of them didn't understand him. They were heathens, and he had turned away from his heathen ways. He wore white shirts and ties and kept his hair short. Even so, the bonds of prison might be enough.
He was tired, though, and morning was not far away. The drive out from the compound had been tiring. Adrenaline and caffeine had been his only fuel. He wanted to relax. A night's sleep, a meal, and he could start finding something for the Reverend.
His car was parked on the street, not far away. It, too, was respectable: a dark blue Chevy, with plenty under the hood. It was astringently clean. He always kept it so; a Warrior of the Way had to set an example for the flock. No one had bothered it, and in an area like this, that had to be a sign of God's favor. Now all he had to do was find a motel for the night. He was torn. Part of him thought of heading for a better part of town and getting a room there. The criminal he had once been thought of obtaining a room around here, where he would be more likely to find someone who might know what had happened.
He headed up the street, pleased by the roar of the engine. His eye fell upon a girl, walking up the street in a short skirt, and suddenly his decision was made. It would be here. A hired woman's touch would be just the thing to take the edge off tonight.
You couldn't tell much from the back, but what he saw was nice. Legs that went on and on, nicely displayed in sheer black hose and high heels. Her skirt barely covered her behind. Her hair was dark black, hanging down to about mid-back.
Definitely a pro, he decided.
He pulled over to the curb smoothly and lowered the window. The girl looked around.
"Hey," he said. "You going out?"
Usually, the response was You looking for a date? or You the heat? This one must be new to the trade. She simply tilted her head, remaining back in the shadows. After a moment, she spoke.
"That depends," she said.
Out of nowhere, a crow landed on his windshield, gripping the windshield wiper with its nasty little black feet. Jason scowled at it and turned the wipers on to shoo it away. The bird did not seem frightened. It simply stepped off the wiper with a curious, finicky sort of grace and stepped onto the hood.
"Get away, you stupid bird," he said, and turned back to the girl. "Depends on what, sweetheart? If you're thinking I'm gonna cheat you, don't worry. I'm an honest man."
She swirled forward then in a fluid, flowing motion that was too quick to see. Only the quick tap tap of her heels and the chunk-kachunk of the car door even told him it was happening. Before he knew it, the girl was in his car, perched on the passenger seat.
Up close, she was wearing some sort of freaky makeup. Her skin was painted dead white, and her eyes and mouth had been colored in dark colors, like a harlequin. Crazily, Jason found himself thinking of a prisoner on his old cellblock who had painted harlequins like that. He'd been good, very good, a murdering sinner who had an eye for art.
"An honest man," she mused, as if nothing had changed. "Well, that's something, I suppose. A...religious man?"
Jason frowned. That was a weird question. "Well, yes," he said.
"Ah. A Godly man." She sounded sarcastic. "A man who believes in the...Lamb."
Years of righteousness hadn't dulled his instincts. She knew something. Jason dove across the seat to grab her. His reflexes were still with him, and he went right for the throat.
If his reflexes were good, hers were inhuman. She brought her right foot up to her right hand, slipped off her shoe, and backhanded him with it. A wave of pain flared in his cheek, making his eye water. He heard a flat punching sound and suddenly realized that the bitch had punctured his cheek.
"About time a man knew how much heels hurt," the girl said reflectively. Then her face changed, furrowed with rage. From a pretty girl's face to that of a harpy, a warhag.
Instinct drove his hand to his wounded cheek. Blood puddled in absurdly amounts, and he could feel a hole, a freaking hole in his cheek, and he could feel a pinpoint of air on his tongue. The girl used her advantage neatly, tossing the shoe into the back seat and bringing up a large black pistol out of her large purse. She rammed it into his throat.
"If you don't want any more holes in you, then I suggest you drive," the girl said.
"Who the hell are you? What do you want?" Jason asked.
The girl leaned in close. "Don't you remember me? I remember you. You and your cult." The barrel jabbed him again. "Drive."
His hands trembled. How could a tiny girl like this get the drop on him so quickly? He turned, blood dribbling down his face, and took the wheel. The engine revved. What was she going to do? Who was she? All this because he had simply wanted some paid company for the night?
She didn't take him far. "Turn here," she said abruptly, pointing to an alleyway. The big car barely fit. He guided the car inside, nervous and shaken.
"Stop," she commanded. "And get out."
"Are you gonna kill me?" he asked.
"That would be fair," she said darkly. "You killed me, after all." The barrel of the gun pressed against him again. "Out."
She followed him as he left the car, never letting him out of her sight. Jason swallowed and tried to figure out what he was going to do. He could knock the gun out of line faster than she could fire it. He had to figure out how to get it away from her and shoot her. Preferably not kill her, so that he could extract information from her. If some psycho had a war against the Lambs, it was his obligation to see she never reached his flock.
Thinking of his obligation gave him strength. He felt his confidence return. Turn, grab the gun, wrench it out of her hands, then shoot her in the knee or something. Shame to ruin legs like that, but it couldn't be helped.
The first part of the plan worked fine. He turned just a bit and brought his right hand up to grab the gun, pushing it away from his face. He got it away from her just fine, turning and putting his body weight behind the shove. Oddly, she let go of the weapon, as if it was a mere afterthought. In a fraction of a second, he looked at her face and saw a slight smile, as if this was all terribly amusing, and she was glad to be rid of the gun after all.
She moved forward, and struck him three blows that happened so fast they seemed to be one. One was a clawlike hand that struck him in the face. His nose broke with a hollow crunch. The claw raked at his eyes, questing for them under his eyelids, and he felt another blast of pain. The second was a punch to his stomach that knocked the wind out of him. It barely seemed like such a small thing could hit so hard; this was a punch he expected from a lumberjack or a biker. The third was a kick to his groin that made his eyes water. His balls exploded into agony. The pain was incredible; monstrous, as if a red-hot iron had been ground into his groin.
He writhed on the dirty ground, his head only a few inches from the car. The headlights threw stark witness to his misery. The woman crossed around the car to get to him. She slipped her heels back on and loomed over him.
"So," she said reflectively. "Here you are, murdering people and picking up whores. How...Godly." Her voice dripped contempt. She placed a foot on his thigh and began to bear down.
Jason couldn't speak; the pain was too much. His face was red and pinched. He tried to gasp air into his lungs, but his throat seemed a pinprick. His injured eyes could barely focus.
"I was where you were, once," she said. Her voice turned harsh and angry with hate. "On the ground, savagely beaten. My boyfriend and I. And you were there. Don't you remember?"
Looking into her face through his slitted eyes, despite his agony, he did. God help him, he did. The girl who had gone with the fallen-away. The Jezebel. But it couldn't be; she was dead. He'd seen it himself.
Death is coming. That was what John had said, and it sure wasn't a morphine daze sort of a thing, it was real. He could smell it and taste it as she walked around to him on those divine legs. She didn't bother to bend down. Death is coming, his mind gibbered, it had come for John and it was coming for him, and he knew what lay ahead.
The girl laid one high-heeled foot on his throat, carefully arranging the position of her heel. Jason stared helplessly up, taking in her leg in the sexy black stocking, looking up her skirt. There was nothing exciting about it, because he knew what she meant to do. He wanted to fight, but he couldn't move.
Then another punch, sound and feeling combined into one, and the stiletto heel was in his throat, driven by her body weight. His eyes teared up anew, and his vision blurred into a prism of headlights and neon. He could feel warmth trickling down his neck and hear something pattering on the pavement.
"Yes," he tried to gasp, but the air died in his lungs before he could finish the word. He tried to hold out a hand, tried to explain that he was a Warrior of the Way and that he was just following the orders of Reverend, but before he could, the world slid away into blackness.
Alice observed the man before her with no shame or guilt. She had done what the Crow wanted her to do. She wondered for a moment: move the body, or leave it? The crow landed on the hood of the car again and cawed at her, as if pleased.
The sound of worn bootheels made her turn and roll her eyes. She dove for the car. Whatever comments the Skull Cowboy might have, she didn't want to hear them. Her bag was on the front seat, and she pawed out her pants and boots.
The Skull Cowboy did not speak when he saw her. Instead, he took a moment to look at what she was doing and then turned. His duster rustled as he held it open, looking strangely batlike, to hide her from anyone who might be looking in the window.
She took off the hooker garb and put on the pants. Now she felt much more at ease. Slipping her coat back on, she stepped out of the car and addressed the Skull Cowboy.
"Thanks," she said.
The Skull Cowboy nodded. "You're welcome," he said shortly. As he turned and his coat slipped closed, she noticed his beltbuckle. It was brass, and looked old: the once-shiny metal had been battered and beaten by time so that it had gone completely dark. She could make out two raised letters – CS.
"You need to leave the city," he said. "The remainder of your prey is out there." A skeletal hand gestured.
"All right," Alice said, her mind still focused on the belt buckle for some reason. "You coming?"
The Skull Cowboy shook his head. "This is your battle, not mine. If you need me, I'll be there."
Alice paused. "If I'm going home, then it's a long walk," she warned.
The Skull Cowboy appeared to grin, even though he couldn't, as he had no lips. "I go where the Crow needs me." He looked at the car with some dubiousness. "I don't like those things, anyhow."
"Cars?" Alice asked blankly. "What's wrong with cars?"
He just shrugged, dismissing it.
"Just how old are you, anyway?" she asked suddenly.
The Skull Cowboy shook his head. The crow cawed.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "Go. Find your prey."
Alice waited a beat. Something felt missing; wrong. Then she remembered.
"Would you lend me your knife?" she asked.
The Skull Cowboy seemed surprised, but he removed the boot knife and gave it to her. It, too, was old: the blade had gone gunmetal gray over the years, but the streetlight slid lovingly along the edge. Alice held it thoughtfully and picked up one of the stockings. The flimsy fabric purred apart under the knife as she cut, her hand guided seemingly by itself.
It didn't take long. Alice tossed the rest away and laid the piece of nylon on the dead man's chest. Her signature. A stylized crow. Now everyone would know in whose name this deed had been done. Now, she was ready.
Alice slid behind the wheel and flexed her hands. This would do. She dropped it into reverse, backed out slowly, and pulled out onto the main drag. The Skull Cowboy might not be coming, but the Crow did. It flew in the open passenger window and landed on the headrest, looking imperiously about its surroundings.
It didn't take too long to reach the highway, and Alice left the city behind. It would end in a small town. A small town where she had grown up. A small town where she had always seen the Lambs of the Seven Seals and wondered who they were. A small town where she had met one of them, fallen in love, and left to seek her fortune with him in the big city.
It would end where it had begun.
