Blood and Apples: An Annora Park Novel: Book One

Chapter One: Blood Tells

The blood looked like oil and rust in the waning hours of daylight. I clenched my hands into tight fists to keep them from reaching out and touching it. Yes—touching blood at a crime scene was—shocking I know—frowned upon.
    "Hey, Parks, you almost done?!!"
    I barely spared the individual attached to the obnoxiously loud voice, a glance. This was my scene. I could take my time. Anyone who thought otherwise could go fuck themselves ten times to Tuesday.
    I opened up all of my senses, dropped all of my formidable barriers, and let everything—and I mean everything—in. Like a tidal wave, they struck. They came, delighting in the truly terrible pain that their suddenness caused me. They hammered—their pace relentless, unforgiving—in my head. I didn't realize I was gasping until I felt a gentle touch to my shoulder. Only one person would dare to touch me when I was Treading—Garrett, my partner, sometimes friend, ex-lover, and seriously big mistake.
    "Ann, you all right?"
    I shrugged off his touch, and instantly I felt his hurt. God, I fucking hated this. I hated being able to feel everything. "I'm fine. I took too much in, much too quickly. It was a stupid rookie mistake." It really was, and already I was mentally slapping myself silly.
    "Uh, we could take a short break, Ann. It's not like the scene is going anywhere. I can run over to Fia's and grab you a coffee, oh, and one of those flaky pastry thingies that you love...do you remember?" He smiled at me, that soft, dreamy smile he always got when remembering something that he particularly liked in regards to my person.
    I sighed. Sweet, almost too kind, concerned, Garrett. He was such a good guy, he would make some nice, upstanding, almost too kind, fully human girl, a great boyfriend—that girl wasn't me. Too bad he wasn't getting the memo. Too bad I had gotten trashed six months ago and slept with him. Too bad I couldn't put the genie back into the bottle. I had complicated an already complicated working relationship. Shit fucking poop sticks. I just didn't have time right now to deal with this. Hell, if I ignored it long enough maybe I'd never have to deal with it? Fuck me, I couldn't be that lucky. Well, no time at present to spend, even a second more ruminating over it.
    I motioned, by flicking two fingers back and forth, for Harris, to come over. The lieutenant was eager, and more than a bit starry eyed. I didn't like the adoration I saw in his eyes. I didn't deserve it. I was a freaky, freakity fuck of nature, and the adoration I saw in his eyes only served to remind me of this oh-so-depressing fact.
    "This blood," I pointed to the large puddle touching the toe of my shoe, "...doesn't belong to the victim." Next, I point, to the wall. "That blood is the victims."
    "Uhhhh," Harris chewed on his lip for a minute before asking, "...uhhhmmm, and how do you know that?"
    Actually, I didn't have to say a thing, Garrett took it for me, spearing the lieutenant with a "are you asinine," look. Lieutenant Harris flushed bright with embarrassment, and quickly nodded. He scribbled some notes and then continued to stare at me, clearly waiting and hoping upon hope for more pearls of wisdom from moi.
    "Two assailants." I sniffed and let the combined scents in the room fill my nostrils. "One of the assailants is sick...dying actually, and..." I frowned, "...the other is..." SHIT SHITBALLS OF SHIT! "The other is Tuatha De Danaan." Garrett's head whipped around so quickly it was a wonder that he didn't get whiplash, and lieutenant Harris turned a sickly shade of puce green.
    Garrett narrows his eyes so much, they are almost straight slits, and he snarls furiously, "Fucking Fairies!"
    I grimace. Fucking Fairies indeed. Ain't that the motherlovin' truth.

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   "Here, let me do that for you."
  I whip around, snarl at the ready, then attempt to soften my, I'm sure what has to appear to be the completely feral look, on my face, when I realize it's Garretts guileless eyes raking over me, from the top of my head down to the little piggies of my toes.
   "I'm fine.  I've got it." Garrett reaches for the bottle and we begin an intense tug-of-war which only causes my earlier soft look to revert back to its feral ferocity.  "Fucking hell, let go.  I said I fucking got it, Garrett."  Shit.  Garrett immediately lets go of the bottle and moves back a few paces.  His face is a contrasting collage of  pain, regret, unconcealed hurt and yes...some anger too.  Shit.  Shit, and triple fucking shit.  And once again, my lack of understanding of the human condition and my inability to relate to well, to just about anyone, has struck again—this time with swift merciless vengeance.
   "I was just trying to help, Ann."
   "Never liked Ann..." I mutter, in lieu of an apology.  Oh hell, and there go the puppy dog eyes again.  I just can't seen to help myself.  I keep wounding him, over and over again, and for good measure it's like I stab him with an f'ing dull blade every time I see him...ya know, just for the hell of it.  God.  Fucking Tequila.  I blame the Tequila entirely...oh and the Vodka, shit, and the Bourbon...yup it's all those bitches fault that I made the colossal mistake of sleeping with Garrett. 
Now.  Now, how the hell did I extricate myself from this complete clusterfuck?
   "Ann is a pretty name."
   "So is Amanda, Amelia, Amy, and Allie.  So...your point would be...?" God I was a bitch.
   Garrett runs a hand through his hair and sighs a very beleaguered sigh.  "I guess I don't have one.  I never seem to have one when I'm around you."
   "Have what?"
   "A point, Ann...I mean, Annora...I never seem to have a damn point."
   Whoa...Garrett just said damn.  He had to be angry.  That or the world was ending. "Listen, Garrett..."
"No, it's, it's whatever Annora. I'll just go and fill in the Captain." He turned and was about two steps away when he called back over his shoulder, "Just take your damn pills, Annora."

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Most people don't know this about Treaders; we die...we die early. Most Treaders are lucky to reach 40, 45 if we're lucky as fuck. But there's a price for Treading death...and death always, ALWAYS collects!  Every death we see, every murder, dark we take within us collects, spreads, and taints our bodies. Like a virulent virus whose cells latch on to healthy ones, multiply and then take over...spreading their sickness, THAT is what Treading does.
     The pills that Garrett and I were fighting over are called Quintinimime.  They help (a little) the worst of the headaches I get, and are supposed to help the degradation of my poor brain. I'm not so sure how that's working...but they do help some with the headaches.  And, well, I'll take what I can get these days. It was just the thought of Garrett seeing me at a "weak point," and trying to help had my hackles raised. I couldn't accept it...seems I never can.
My head feels like a hundred person marching band is stomping through it. And I find that my hands are shaking as I try to pry the damn top off of the pill bottle. Damn it all to hell! It's like I can feel Garrett's stare freaking four hundred yards away...like he has some sort of supervision superpower when it comes to me; locating me, seeing me, sensing me, yeah, stalking me. All right. All right. Maybe I'm being a bit harsh, perhaps he's just shy of being a stalker. Of course...if he keeps this up I'm going to have to give him that title, and fast.
    The fact that I can feel him staring gives me the impetus to twist, and yank the top of the pill case off—because it'll be a cold day in hell before I call him over for help.
    I pour the contents of the container into my palm and swear under my breath. Four. I have four pills left.
    I pop two of the four pills into my mouth, my mind already working on how and what I'll have to do to get my hands on, and accumulate more Quintinimime. Because not having the pills...well, that's not an option.
    I know there are lines marring my forehead, creases, as worry begins to steadily flood me the more I think of the Quintinimime. Damn it. I'm going to have to contact Walker. Next to Garrett, Walker is probably the last person I want in my life, bugging me. But short of hitting up the Conglomerate (they have a monopoly on the pills which basically are keeping me alive—and would also love to get their dirty, oh so, controlling hands on me. I try to stay as far away from them as humanly possible) Walker is my best bet. Another Treader (weak as he is) Walker isn't as strong or power controlled as I am. His range doesn't extend as far as mine, either. In fact, he can barely claim the ability. But in a world where Treaders are rare, very rare, he does get a call every once in awhile. Frankly they're usually crank calls, which is one of the reasons he's more or less semi-retired. Honestly, retirement was probably a good decision on his part, as it extended his life expectancy a great deal. Hell, he may even be able to claim a healthy full human lifespan, probably longer actually, considering his parentage. Me. Not so much. But then, I'm the only one of my kind. The only TRUE Treader. Yup, aren't I just such a special nut. And God, how accurate that is, because nutty I am. The brain which resides in me, well, with my Treader brain there's no getting around being squirrelly in the head.
Oh, and here he comes again.  I turn (now clearer, pain free, eyes) toward Garrett, and paste a wide fake smile on my face.  Again, I know I probably appear rabid as opposed to happy.  But then, I never did have a smile worth shit.
   "You took your pills, Ann...Annora?"
   THOSE, seriously, those are the first words he wants to utter to me?  Jesus, Joseph and Jehoshaphat, what is he, my mother?  Oh wait, my mother is dead. Let's try this again.
   "Yes, oh-sacred-babysitter of mine, I took the damn pills." And there I go again, running my mouth.  It's like some sort of disease, the sarcasm disease.  I wonder if there's a pill for that, too—if so, I could use a couple hundred of them, uhmmm, or a couple million.  I watch as a frown crosses his handsome face and let out a small sigh.  I really am a bitch.
   "You need to eat, Annora.  You know the pills aren't enough.  Let's go to Fia's.  We'll grab a quick bite, recharge, and then hit this head on."
   I'm already shaking my head in denial.  "I don't need to eat, and I sure as hell don't need to recharge.  What I do need to do is catch these sonsofbitches.  Which I can't do if I'm munching on fucking watercress sandwiches and tarts at some fancy little patisserie."
"That fancy patisserie was good enough for you several months ago," he mutters, but instantly appears contrite when I shoot him a bitter, sour look. "Okay, okay, fine. You don't want to sit down a eat. Would it be too much to ask for us to run through the drive through of Cabots though and grab some sandwiches to go. You can eat in the damn car if that's how you want to play this."
"That'll work." I'm already headed, fast paced, to the car, and hear the short angry bursts of curses coming from behind me as Garrett rushes to keep up—I've got a long stride, so sue me.
    Of course, if I keep this up with Garrett he just might, that or drop my ass as a partner. Both options leave the shriveled organ I call a heart, cold.