I was tempted to let her go, really. Her story was definitely believable, and jived with what I knew about her. She'd been a street kid before getting into the weights, and I knew that she had a deep distrust of people, men in particular. But then I remembered something. "I'd believe you if it wasn't for all the girls that came through here, some not much younger than you were when your innocence was taken, Carla. How many of their lives did you ruin, how much innocence of theirs did you exchange for money? You want to comfort yourself with thoughts of revenge? You didn't get revenge. You became your own mother, Carla."
The words struck deep inside Blood, who surged to her feet, anger and hatred in her eyes. She sprang at me, and I pulled the trigger of my Glock, hitting her in chest. She collapsed to the floor, clutching at the wound, her eyes in agony. "Please...." she gasped, looking me in the face. "Please."
I nodded. "I'm sorry, Carla."
I pulled the trigger again.
Chapter 3
Tabby
I woke up at about three in the morning, somewhat surprised. Normally when Mark went out on patrol, and given the way he and Sophie were making eyes at each other, I thought I'd be woken up to the normal sounds of them making love, especially as Sophie's pregnancy hormones put her sex drive into hyper-speed. Despite her claims of being demure and restrained, there was something about Mark that turned my friend into a very vocal lover. Our unique living situation gave them a full section of the main house to themselves and me often sleeping in the supposedly sound-proofed living room (those bean bag chairs are actually awesomely comfortable), but I could hear them at least once or twice a week. If it wasn't that I loved them both so much, I'd have been upset.
Instead, that night I woke up to absolute silence. I'd planned on sleeping on the bean bag chair, so I stretched, enjoying the rustle of the stuffing under my head. The bags aren't filled with normal foam beads but something else, so they never go flat and dumpy on you. Another one of the effects is that the rustling of the padding inside is quite nice, with none of that plasticky squeal that cheap bags give you. It was somewhere in between leaves rustling and sand scrunching under your toes when you walk on a wet beach. The magic of science, indeed.
Getting off the bag, I wrapped the light blanket I was using around me to ward off the chill of the evening and walked into the hallway. The layout of Mount Zion was rather strange to say the least, considering it had for years been a church and rectory. The main living area connected to what had been the main sanctuary through my bedroom, which had been the room that housed the choir things as well as the pipe organ. Mark and Sophie used what had been the rector's living room, while the office was in between, and had been converted into our own living room. The kitchen, laundry room, and other things were scattered off of our living room, and considering how rich Mark is, were most likely undersized compared to others in his tax bracket. It didn't matter to us though, and we enjoyed the whole setup.
The sanctuary itself had been converted into our own gym, and was very nice for what three people could use. Behind it, near the front door of the sanctuary, was the entry way which led to the bell tower. The bell tower was used by Mark and Sophie as a base of operations for his vigilante work.
Coming out into the hallway, I headed towards the kitchen area, expecting at any moment to be warned away by a giggle or repressed moan. Instead, I was shocked to find Sophie in bed, snoring lightly while the other half of the bed was empty. Checking the clock, I was shocked to find that Mark wasn't in bed with her.
Heading back towards my room, I heard a muffled sound coming from the gym. Sticking my head in the door, I saw Mark kneeling over one of his practice bags for martial arts, blasting it with rapid fire punches. I could see, even in the dim lights of the moon filtering through the windows (Mark had replaced the original broken stained glass with triple paned clear panels) the dark shine of blood against the blue of the bag and the pale of his knuckles.
"What's going on?" I asked, coming closer. It was then I knew how upset he was, because one of Mark's traits is an almost inhuman sensitivity to everything around him. Details that you wouldn't even believe he would note and react to, giving him an air of super freaky precognition or something. This time though, Mark didn't hear me, so I waited until there was a pause in his self mutilation before repeating myself. "Mark, what's going on?"
His head jerked up, and I could see that not all of the moisture on his face was due to sweat. Tears were coursing down his face, and the look he gave me was so full of agony that my own heart threatened to break. Instead of answering, he stopped his punching, and wiped at his eyes. "Nothing," he said finally, while I watched blood ooze from his knuckles and trickle down his hand, "just a hard patrol."