Waking the Dead

AN: hello children. This story, or whatever the hell it is, will kinda explain the bitterness and the reason Toreth is the way he is. I'm planning on adding more, but I dunno when that will happen. Check out my Posterous account, cause I plan on posting goodies on there. Oh yea, this is years before the events in Fetch the Ghoul.

Toreth studied the side of the building with his hands tucked into his pockets. Rain pattered against his leather jacket, and dripped off the bill of his baseball cap. His toes were numb in his boots and his breath plumed in the arctic air. He shoved the discomforts behind a wall, along with his misgivings about doing this little job. He killed people, he tortured people, but this was his first kidnapping.

His head tilted to the side, and water slipped down his collar. He shuddered, and pulled at the leather to cover his neck.

The fire escape looked intact, and was probably the easiest way to get into the building. But he figured they watched that closely, if the girl they were guarding was so important. He shrugged. He just wanted to get this shit done, and get back. He hated being up north.

Toreth tested the first stair to see if it groaned, and when it didn’t he scaled them quickly. He kept his eyes turned up, waiting for some maniac with a gun to pop out and try to pump him full of bullets.

He paused underneath a window that was more opaque than anything. He slid his gun out from his ankle holster as he crouched underneath the window. He had another level to go before he got to the right floor, but he changed his mind about his approach.

With his free hand he slipped a knife out, and stuck it down between the window frame and the window. The old wood frame creaked as he wiggled the knife. He froze when a crack spider webbed across the frosted glass.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and shoved his gun into the waistband of his jeans.

And that’s when the body hit the landing he stood on. It hit the metal with a squishy crunch, and the metal rattled. Grey dust fell from the railing almost vibrating loose from their moorings.

Toreth gaped at it, knife still sticking out of the window frame. Then it occurred to him that it probably wasn’t a good idea to just stand there like an idiot. He flattened himself against the wall, and crouched down so he could see what was left of the head. Long blonde hair matted with blood, and grey matter. A blue eye glistened in an eye socket…

“Well, hell,” Toreth groaned, and scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t need to look at the photo tucked away in his jacket. He recognized the body by its hair. Samantha Covel took great pride in her hair, and it showed in the picture.

Now what? Toreth jiggled his knife out and slipped it back where it belonged. He straightened up, looking up through the metals bars. Rain pelted his face in a down pour and he swore. Then the fire escape shuddered again, and the metal clanged. A blur of black rushed down the steps, and Toreth threw himself backwards just in time to miss a knife aimed at his face. The rain pounding down stuck his bangs to his face, and got in his eyes making it harder to see. He knocked aside another swipe at his face, grabbed the wrist wielding the knife and twisted with his torso to throw the person past him.

The fire escaped groaned beneath their combined weight, and Toreth was starting to lose the feeling in his fingers. The person tried to sweep his feet out from under him, doing a low kick, but only got him in the shins. Toreth went down on one knee, scrabbling for his knife. Another blow landed on his shoulders, but he felt a little sting inside the blow. He punched out at whatever he could, and heard his opponent grunt.

His hand finally closed on his knife, the wood smooth and familiar in his hand. Toreth grabbed a handful of wet fabric, still on his knees, and jerked hard. His knife pistoned forward and sank deep into flesh. He wrenched the knife down, feeling it grate against bone.

Black dots crackled across his vision, and he dropped the knife. He couldn’t feel the metal under his knees. He couldn’t feel the cold any more.

“Fuck,” a male voice groaned. The voice sounded rough, and in agony. Toreth grinned, or thought he did. He couldn’t feel his face, and didn’t know why. It wasn’t that cold. Was it? He hunched forward, and watched his fingers thread though the metal grate. They clenched sporadically, and his stomach rolled.

“Cristian,” another voice trickled to Toreth’s ears, and a scalding hand rested on the upper curve of his back. It was a barely there weight through the leather jacket. Toreth wanted to brush it off, but his hands wouldn’t let go of the grate. The voice sounded familiar. He blinked, his mouth open and panting. Water trickled down his face, dripping from his teeth and chin like mini water falls.

“Rafe?” Toreth muttered, the voice finally linking with a picture in his head. A picture of a tall blonde with pale, pale blue eyes.

The voice paused, “Yes.” Another hand joined the first, sliding along the slick leather to wrap around the knob of his shoulder. Toreth felt himself being hoisted up, and his vision left without a good bye.

A radical beeping jerked Toreth from what had been a dream about the only time he’d done crack. It was mostly a good memory because he’d had the best sex that night. In fact, he had a hard on at the moment, and his jeans were trying to cut off his circulation. Wait. He rolled over, and hit the hard wood floor with a thud. He hit the glass coffee table on the way down, and a folded piece of paper fluttered down to land right next to his head. He slapped at it and his shoulder twinged. His fist crumpled the paper into a ball, and he dragged himself to his feet.

The apartment came furnished, and was supposed to stay perfectly furnished when he left it. But before he left, Toreth made a note to pitch the coffee table out the window. They could bill him; it would be worth one of Ricordic’s beatings.

He uncrumpled the paper, and rubbed his eyes before he read it.

Cristian, next time pay better attention.

Rafe

Toreth’s face turned milk white and he lurched to the bathroom. Sure, the night he did crack was the night he had the best sex of his life. But it was also the night that the only person that gave a shit about his well being died in a burst of gunfire from the gun of a dealer that like to sample his own product.

Rafe’s white blonde hair matted with blood jumped before Toreth’s eyes. Toreth leaned over the toilet just in time to empty his stomach into it.