Sing me a Song, Dead Girl
#8 of Fall_from_Grace
This is the final chapter to "A Fall From Grace."
Carter Wolf hears voices and sees things that aren't there. He's been diagnosed with schizophrenia, but during the events in the previous story,
Carter transformed into a non-human form.
He reluctantly grows to accept that the voices in his head may be those of real demons, and that he himself is an otherkin
- half human, half demon.
a Fall from Grace is the sequel to My Guardian Demons but new readers can jump on board here.
This chapter clocks in at 3900 words.
The cover illustration is a work in progress by our very own Levi_Kaz.
He's a great artist to work with, so if you need an illustration to your story, you might want to drop him a note.
This story also comes with a music soundtrack, which you can listen to at any point in the story.
Personally, I recommend listening to it after the story is over.
If you like this story, let me know in the comment section, and I'll get cracking on the next installment in the series.
Sing me a Song, Dead Girl.
Music soundtrack for this chapter is HERE:
https://www.sofurry.com/view/1138427
_The Phantom Cat_Jazzclub is one of the most popular nightclubs in Oakenford.
I'm not just saying that because I know the owner, but it has a long and proud history under changing ownership. The current owner, Jesse Juliano has kept the tradition going by hiring solid names and predicting who'd play well together. The place seats two hundred guests, but it can pack a hundred more when the fire inspector turns the blind eye. He used to be strict on safety regulations, but Irene had a word with him, and he's been supportive ever since.
Irene joined the Phantom Cat six years ago as the main attraction. Blessed with a great voice and a strange talent for singing people into doing her bidding, the place has seen little trouble.
Until tonight, that was.
Tonight, six years worth of trouble came crashing down, and half past midnight_the Phantom Cat_had turned into a slaughter house.
The corpse of Jesse lay in his office, Irene was in her room upstairs with a bullet in her chest and the hitman who was sent to kill her, was on the floor of the nightclub. He too was dead, but unlike his two victims, the hitman had not been shot. He was ripped to death in the arms of a vaguely feline demon from beyond the abyss.
That demon, was me. When I entered the nightclub less than an hour ago, I was a human. That too had changed.
Oscar Peterson played here in 1986. Jesse took a photo of him and hung it on the wall. He's all smiles, wiping his forehead with a linen cloth while he plays. The glass cover mirrored my reflection on the scene; a feline monster, a horned demon with fangs and claws.
Do I really look like this?
Or am I slipping into hopeless insanity?
My mind was a tug-of-war between two identities struggling to take over. Both were separate and clear, as if my mind was working at two frequencies.
I was the losing part, the human part.
Changing into my demon-half twice today had been a gamble, and now it was impossible to change back.
_ _
I was slipping, slipping into the dark void while my demon half clung on to an existence on earth. The abyss is a vast, shapeless void but it crawled with entities that flew, swam and snaked their way through the infinite nothing. Snakelike beings with bodies like mile long intestines, slithered and cackled their way through space, occupying more than three dimensions. One such creature with a flat head and black, expressionless eyes almost collided with me, and would have slammed right into me if it hadn't made a jump into the fourth dimension as it screamed by.
I was a stranger to this world, like my demon half in the human world and I was terrified. No human mind can withstand or comprehend the sights beyond the abyss and remain sane. The hallucinations I was used to from my disease were Saturday morning cartoons compared to the sights beyond the abyss.
If I ever make it out, I'll greet every hallucination with a big old smooch, I swore.
_ _
Quinn was on his way with a team of paramedics in tow, and I knew I'd get the answer to my doubts within minutes.
If the paramedics screamed and fled I'd assume the transformation into demon was for real. If they laughed and reached for a straightjacket, I was simply delusional. Either way, I was damned.
Outside, the door of a patrol car slammed shut, and hasted footsteps approached the nightclub.
Holy SHIT! They are here already.
This is it, I pleaded. If I don't change back now, we'll be locked up or shot. They shoot demons, you know.
In that moment my demon half let go of its grip. I dived behind the bar in one swooping motion and hid under the counter while my body changed back.
Never again, I swore and collapsed, naked and gasping on the wooden floor of the Phantom Cat.No fucking way I'm turning demon again.
Seconds later, Quinn burst through the front door."I've got this one covered," he barked at three paramedics who ran upstairs to Irene. He squatted beside me and for the second time that night, he'd brought me a fresh set of clothes. Only, this time it wasn't an_Armani_ suit.
"Sears?"
Quinn winked at me. "You'd rip it up anyway, next time you shift."
I wasn't in the mood for jokes, so I dressed in silence, while Quinn examined the remains of the hitman.
The guitar case was empty but his rifle was on the floor and in pieces.
There was never any guitar in that case, I realized_._ Irene never backed down on her promise to let me into the band. She had left her MP3 player on the upright piano, and when I switched it on the sad notes of_Song for my Brother_ poured from the tiny speaker. She must have recorded herself playing it live, I thought and pocketed the gadget. Something to remember her by.
"Hmm!" was Quinn's only comment when he was done examining the mutilated body.
"I know", I said. "There was more than a little anger involved."
"It's not your methods that bother me," said Quinn. "This is Frederic Samza."
"I trust he's not a friend of yours?"
Quinn got up and examined the wound in my shoulder. In my human form it was nothing more than a bad scratch, but I was bleeding into the Sears shirt.
"You were damn lucky," said Quinn. "Samza's an expert marksman."
"Luck had nothing to do with it."
Quinn fingered the material between two fingers.
"Either you tear up all your clothes, or you bleed into them." He knew the identity of the killer on the floor, but he was reluctant to let me know about it. He finally prodded the corpse on the floor with the toe of his boot.
"Frederic Samza was a killer for the national military intelligence."
"Holy crap, man" I gasped. "What are we up against?"
"If the MI's involved, It's something big," said Quinn.
"Bigger than you, me and Crane together."
"Maybe you shouldn't go with me," said Quinn. We were in the patrol car, driving back to Crane's laboratory.
"I've got to," I said. "Besides, I'm done changing - forever."
Quinn gave me a puzzled look. "Forever is a long time, my friend."
We turned off the headlights and parked outside the lab. I knew my way around from earlier that same day, only it felt like a lifetime ago.
"Know if he's packing a piece?" asked Quinn.
"I don't think so, just don't drink his coffee."
The door to the lab was unlocked, and the first thing we saw was seven soldiers in army clothes who sat slumped and motionless in chairs around a table.
We're too late.
Two red thermos made slight hissing noises as steam from the hot beverage inside escaped the rubber seal. Crane stood beside one of the soldiers, with a syringe in his hand.
"Another tea-party, Dr. Crane? You know your refreshments have a bad influence on your guests."
Crane spun around and stared at us, cocking his head in disbelief."I didn't expect to see you again." He walked over slowly and reached out as if he wanted to take my pulse, but backed off when he realized I'd sooner tear his arm off.
"But the fact you're here proves my theory, that the effect of ARF is only temporary."
"You don't understand," I said. "Your drug didn't work on me because...I'm different."
"Aren't we all?" asked Crane and stuck a syringe into the arm of another sleeping soldier. "Tell me, how many did you kill?"
"Only one," I said. "Frederic Samza."
Crane froze, and for once his eyes flickered.
"Wait!" he cried. "You don't think I sent him after you?"
"If not you, who else?"
Crane didn't reply, but put the syringe into a leather pouch and closed it with a soft "snap."
"Now we wait."
"Stop right there," barked Quinn. "I'm placing you under arrest for conspiracy to murder Irene Sapere. And when we figure out what this is all about, I'll call down a shitload of additional charges on your ass."
Crane threw his hands in the air in mock obedience and sent Quinn an overbearing smile.
"You don't believe this is a one man project?"
"I believe you're insane and must be stopped."
"Take a look around," said Crane and waved a hand at the expensive equipment around him.
"All of this is National scientific intelligence. The lab, the equipment, the cash, and myself; everything is paid for by the MI-16. We're talking seven figures here."
One of the soldiers made a soft groaning noise and blinked a few times.
"Even my dura-fighters here," said Crane "are volunteers, donated by MI-16."
"Like the soldiers who went berserk two nights ago?"
Crane sighed. "A regrettable necessity. How else could I test the ARF dosage in a time when we're not at war with anyone?"
Quinn reached for the handcuffs hanging from his belt, but hesitated. Several of the soldiers were waking up and looking around, confused.
"Arrest me, and the MI-16 will have me released before morning," laughed Crane. "Kill me and they will see you court marshalled. The feds are not pouring seven figures into this project without wanting returns."
"Screw it!" I whispered to Quinn. "I'll take a chance and shift. Then I'll tear him a new asshole."
"You've done enough shifting for one night," he whispered back. "If we can't play this by the book, I'll be the one to go wolf on him."
Crane turned on a sound generator coupled to an oscilloscope, and a speaker on the wall produced a low humming noise. He turned a dial on the generator and the note rose into a high-pitched shriek.
"17.5 KHz stimulates the lizard part of the brain." said Crane. "Most people can't hear that frequency, only animals."
"-and those in between," groaned Quinn and held his ears.
In my human form I only found the noise slightly annoying, but the dura-fighters opened their eyes wide, their faces grimacing.
One of them tried to get out of his chair, but he couldn't stand on his legs and dropped to the floor and started puking.
"They always do that," said Crane. "Nausea and confusion are common signs that the drug is working."
I remembered the symptoms well, and we had minutes only, before the soldiers went berserk.
"I'm calling for backup," shouted Quinn, trying to drown out the noise and headed for the exit. He looked at the door, puzzled when it wouldn't open.
"Stuck!" He winced from the continuing noise of the sound generator and threw himself at the door. The impact had no effect and the door didn't budge.
Crane patted the pocket of his lab-coat, and an evil smile came over his lips.
"Same technology as used for remote controlling car doors."
"We need that remote," said Quinn through clenched teeth. He was in agony from the supersonic whine.
"And we need to shut that damn generator down. I can't transform while it's on."
"Does the noise hurt your ears?" mocked Crane. "It's pure music to my_dura-fighters_. It encourages them into action."
"So, your_modern day Vera Lynn_ turned out to be nothing but a tone generator?" I sneered.
"Simple, efficient and portable in the field." Crane smiled. He was eager to share the details of his discoveries; too eager if he was going to let us go.
We're screwed, I thought.
All dura-fighters were now awake and looked to Crane as if waiting for an order from their commander.
"The enemy spies have infiltrated our base." Crane now pointed to Quinn and me.
"Kill them!"
The dura-fighters rose from their chairs and staggered towards us. They were as slow as I had been at first when under the influence of ARF, but initial slowness wore off within a minute or two. I was terrified of what would happen if I shifted for the third time that night, but with Quinn incapacitated I saw no other option.
Except one.
Two dura-fighters stood between me and the lab bench at the other side of the lab. I bent my head low and cannonballed directly towards them. They braced themselves, preparing for an impact but instead of charging them, I threw myself at the generator on the lab bench. The two fighters lit up in demented grins when they saw me approaching. They were beyond fear and regarded me only as prey - a toy, soon to be broken. As the lizard part of their brains took over, their memories were fading fast. Their homes, their families, even their loved ones were turning into distant echoes. If I had ever proposed a danger to them, that too would be nothing but a whisper.
The gap between them closed quickly as they reached out for me, but I had to push past them.
They're too fast, I realized, and the moment I sprinted between them, two hands grabbed the back of my shirt.
"ohhh, yessss!" giggled a voice behind me in insane anticipation.
I panicked. They had recovered fast and I knew the rage within them all too well.
The survival instinct is one of the most powerful forces within us, and the adrenalin fueled hysteria is our last resort when we are cornered. A trapped fox will gnaw off its own leg to survive; a mother of three will lift a car to rescue her children, breaking her own bones in the process. It's like a bee's stinger; anything to save the species, even if it only grants us a few more minutes. As the two dura-fighters pulled me closer and clawed at my back, I made a split-second decision;
I'd rather spend eternity among the nameless creatures of the abyss than be torn into pieces by these assholes.
_ _
_"Here goes, motherfucker!"_I growled and prepared to shift. The faces of Irene, Quinn, and my sister Kamryn flashed by. All the ones I loved, my best friend.
I don't want to lose you.
In that moment my shirt tore at the seams with a satisfying, ripping sound, and the iron grasp of the soldiers loosened.
It's Odd, I thought. I don't feel any different and I looked at my arms, astonished that I had not changed. I was still in human form and panicking. Only the flimsy fabric of the_Sears_shirt had surrendered and set me free. I charged forward with a last, desperate yank sending buttons flying in all directions, and I was free. Like a pole vaulter on broken legs, I somersaulted over the bench, dragging a small fortune worth of equipment and machinery with me. I landed amongst a rain of wood splinters and broken electronics.
Damn! That hurt.
The fighter who had clawed at my back kept closing and unclosing his fists, and his lips quivered. The other stared at the piece of bloody fabric in his hand, breathing in my scent.He's going berserk.
In seconds they would be out of control.
The broken generator emitted a faint crackling noise as a capacitor died and discharged itself into the cracked circuitry. Without it, the fighters were confused about whom to kill first, and looked to Crane for new orders.
The modern day Vera Lynn has died, I chuckled. Then I thought of Irene, and the voice that would never sing again.We need you.
Then I realized she had been with us all the time. I reached into my coat for the MP3 player I found on her piano. At the press of a button,_Song for my Brother_reverberated through the lab, echoed down the halls and faded into the courtyard. The dura-fighters stopped and listened, and all went deadly quiet for a moment, except from the voice of Irene and her solitary piano. Her voice was full of longing and on the verge of breaking; beautiful and fragile, like the touch of a butterfly, or a soap bubble landing on your arm.
Or a balloon.
The memory of two brothers helping each other retrieve a stray balloon returned in a flash. The empathy between them had dulled my berserker rage when I was rampant on ARF. The recognition of the fundamental emotion of caring had deterred me for long enough to change my target.
The drug had robbed me of fear, but it couldn't kill loving and caring. These feelings were only in hiding until they were awakened by a simple balloon; a fragile dream made from color and air and all brought back by the singing voice of a dead girl.
Crane stared at his now immobilized dura-fighters."Attack them, you fools!" he screamed.
Like the fighters, I'd been under the berserker influence of the ARF myself. Nothing on earth could change that. But I was not of this earth, and I had drained my rage into the infinite depths of the abyss. But these guys had nowhere to vent their rage. Their minds too, were filling up with memories, specific to each of them. Girlfriends, lovers, relatives and things they held dear. With snarls of rage, the fighters turned towards Crane, and his eyes widened in terror as he realized that he was now the unwilling focus of their attention.
"Do something!" he screamed.
Quinn unholstered his service LC9 and pointed into the midst of the dura-fighters advancing on Crane.
"Everybody freeze!" he shouted. "I'm not firing any warning shots," but no one paid him any attention.
"You can't threaten them," I shouted back. "They don't fear you or your gun."
One of the fighters grabbed a laboratory flask and smashed it against a desk. The bottle neck remained in his hand, now razor sharp. With a bloodcurdling growl he charged at Crane, slashing his left arm. Crane watched in disbelief as blood gushed out and soaked his lab-coat.
"I'm not the enemy," he screamed. "THEY are!"
"You can play with their emotions," I said. "But inside, they know you're the one who made them lose everything they love."
"Love?" he whispered.
"The one thing you couldn't synthesize in your lab."
Crane stood motionless for a moment, frowning as the flaw in his theory dawned upon him.
"Oh!" he said.
Then seven figures descended upon him.
When the body of Crane hit the floor, the door lock clicked open, and Quinn and I dashed headlong into the corridor without looking back.
"They're trashing the lab," panted Quinn. "They won't stop raging until the ARF wears off."
"Leave them," I said. "I put the MP3 player on repeat. The ARF wears off sooner than the batteries."
I shivered in the cold night air outside. Behind us, we heard the muffled sound of equipment and furniture being destroyed. At distance, it sounded innocent enough, like a building crew remodeling an office to the sound of a radio.
"There's not much point in hanging around, said Quinn. Leave it up to the MI-16 to sort out their own mess."
"And Frederic Samza?"
"He's MI-16 property too. This will become one of the cases that never happened. Loose ends get tied up, details forgotten, people paid off. It's all part of the job."
"Like the Burris case? [*]"
Quinn shrugged. "They'll throw the blame on Crane, decide he made illegal_Captagon_on the side or something, and a local gang busted his lab." Quinn patted my shoulder, "You'll get used to it." His hand came away bloodied.
"You're bleeding pretty bad," he said quietly. He reached into the patrol car and gave me a blanket. "I don't have any spare clothes with me."
"You know," I said. "If it hadn't been for your cheap-ass_Sears_ shirt ripping on me, I'd have been dead in there."
"It wasn't the shirt," said Quinn. "You were going demon in there."
"Bullshit!" I snapped. "There IS no demon; never was. I'm a schizo with finely tuned senses. That's all."
Quinn's mobile rang, so I bade him farewell and looked for my car in the dark parking space.
"Wait!" he called, waving the phone over his head. "Get in the patrol car; I'll drive you to the hospital."
"Dude," I objected. "I'm alright. Torn up and exhausted, but I'll be okay."
"Not you, dummy." Laughed Quinn, "Irene's alive."
I sat by Irene's hospital bed until dawn, holding her hand and praying she would pull through. The bullet had grazed her heart and it took the surgeon hours to retrieve it.
"There!" said the surgeon and gave Quinn a vial that contained a twisted lump of metal. "We were lucky to get it out." Siobhan was a young Irish doctor who had taken up the vacancy after Dr. Gill.
"I don't get it," she said. "She was almost gone when they brought her in, but she kept going during the operation. Your friend must have an incredibly strong heart."
"The previous doc would probably say she was strong of mind." Quinn winked at me, but I was too tired to laugh.
Siobhan shook her head. "I only know, I've never seen anything like it before."
I was close to fainting from exhaustion and hallucinated rat like creatures scurrying around on the floor and in the wastebasket. An invisible hand painted verses in blood on the wall that made no sense, and could have been dirty limericks for all I cared.
Bring it on, I said defiantly. I'm not impressed.
"Good job!" replied the male voice in my head.
"Thanks, that's a rare compliment, coming from you."
"You've done us a great service." It was the female voice. "Now, we'll return the favor."
In that moment, Irene opened her eyes.
The doors to The Phantom Cat were boarded over, and a sign outside read under reconstruction. Through a crack in the fence Irene and I could see construction workers painting the walls and moving furniture around. Once they were finished, Frederic Samza would never have sat foot in the place, if The MI-16 even allowed him to have existed.
"Quinn asked me to give you these." I had the keys to the nightclub in my pocket.
Irene flashed a timid smile. "I guess I'm the manager of_The Cat_now?"
"That's the way Jesse would have wanted it."
"I'm gonna put a new band together," she said. "Maybe you'd care to play the guitar?"
"You could probably talk me into it."
"I'd also need someone to help me run the place." She took my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Someone trustworthy."
"Listen," I said. "Did you... see me back then? When I shifted."
"I've seen you for what you really are."
"And?"
"I think_The Phantom Cat_ will be run by two beautiful freaks."
THE END
[*] In "My Guardian Demons"