Daughter of Blood and Nightmares

18.0: She's Not So Sweet And Innocent After All

At Zayne's request, I bring her to the seven hundred block of Parker St. Her old stomping ground. This was the block that gave us our first lead. The basement that was full of dead bodies is only four houses down. Three blocks over is where the lady was distraught over her dead husband.

When she comes to a halt, refusing to step onto this block in particular, I too come to a stop. Oliver plays the good guy, joking with her, taking her feelings into consideration. Maybe because he's still crushing on her friend? Or Oliver has always been more approachable.

I'm seconds away from ignoring Zayne's demand of bringing her here when a shrill scream fills the streets. There's no thought for either Oliver or myself as we take off in the direction of trouble. It's what we do, what we're here for.

Almost instantly people flock to the corner, but no one steps onto the cursed block. All eager to see the horrors of Parker St. What mayhem is brewing next? But not a single one brave enough to come close to it. It's obvious what everyone fears in West River.

The scream leads us to the house across the street from the infamous cult house. It's been years since stepping foot into that cursed house. It's still run down with crumbling steps and overgrown weeds. I can still see the face of the man as he pleads for us to wait, to take whatever information he can give us.

There's no pausing, blinking, breathing as we march up the steps of the immaculate house and barge inside. The door slams open to reveal a woman on her knees. Her head snaps up at our unexpected arrival and I stumble a couple of steps back.

Horrified, her sobs flow freely. She searches the air in front of her by wildly swinging her arms. "Who's there?" Her whimpers mix with tears of blood. So much blood. It trickles down her face from the two hollowed sockets in her face. Dark, deep holes are where her eyeballs should be.

"It's The Order." I say into the eerily quiet house.

Oliver quickly questions, "who did this to you?" His eyes roam the area searching for the culprit.

Sobs mix with her mumbles, "I-I-I don't know." More gut wrenching cries. "People warned me of the house across the street."

Oliver taps out a text on his phone. With the evil deed already done, no demon in sight, we can't help her.

She crawls on her hands and knees to where she thinks I am. "I should've listened. I-I..."

"Help is on the way. You'll be alright." My words hold no worth to her. The damage is done and even if she is alright, she's still scarred for life.

A gasp of relief exits her mouth as her hand slaps down on my shoe. Her hands frantically travel up my legs tugging on the fabric of my pants. I help her to her feet, walk her over to a chair where I have her wait. It's probably best to not parade her around outside with all the curious eyes, including the culprits. That's if it was the cult house across the street. There's no doubt in my mind that it wasn't.

The cult house has earned its name. Dozens of demons have resided there, some caught, some not. Over sixty people have lost their lives inside the house, some recovered, some not. Activity has died down over the years. Few disturbances are from the actual house anymore. Attention has been moved to the surrounding houses, especially the one across the street.

This woman said so herself. This house is the most beautiful in the city, modern and up-to-date appliances, luring people in. With a perfect house and cheap rent, everyone looks past the terrible location or is unaware of the darkness that resides nearby.

We've tried to punish the owner and obtain the house ourselves, but no court is in our favor. The owner doesn't want to sell and we can't force them to. Their house isn't the criminal house, just the victim. And each day more victims fall prey.

We slip out before the ambulance arrives. We can't be stuck answering useless questions when we need to get back to our patrol. To get back to Ashton. Shit. Once out on the sidewalk, I begin to panic. She isn't here. She didn't follow. Why would she?

Oliver must feel my growing hostility. He tries to make excuses for her disappearance and calmly claims that she's around here somewhere, but I ignore him as my mind races. A brick drops to the bottom of my stomach at the thought of losing her.

We stalk the streets completely clueless as to where she would go. She's hidden right under our noses for how long in this very community. These streets and all the shotty places to seek refuge are to her benefit.

"I know where she is." A woman says from behind us. We both stay quiet as we twist around to face an old woman. She rolls her eyes at us as she continues, "that dreadful girl that was with you. Evil she is."

"Ashton. Where is she?" My words sound more panicked than I would like them to be.

"I'll tell you only because you'll take her away," Her crooked finger points down the street, "she's where she's always been found. Tricking people and playing on their fears. The pub, two blocks up." The woman looks over our uniforms with disgust.

We thank her before heading for the pub. Her words of, "be careful of her," linger in the air.

With some distance between us and the woman, Oliver mumbles, "not a fan, is she."

The walk to the pub has my anxiety visible. Jittery limbs, fast paced steps, rigid muscles. Oliver isn't an idiot. We've been friends long enough for him to know when I'm angered, nervous. There's a small release of tension from my tightly clenched muscles when the pub comes into view. But once walking into the small pub my anger rises.

Why the hell is she here? The bartender only glances at us before looking off across the room. To her.

She hovers over a drunk man, bickering with him. I try to catch up on the conversation, but all I hear is 'trampled by cows' and being in the 'wrong profession'. She's taunting him. I can see it on his face, the hatred he has for her. It happens in a blink of an eye. He punches her right in the face.

She doesn't go down, she doesn't cry, which is crazy impressive. She's tougher than any of us give her credit for. I've already seen her take a punch, but I don't enjoy watching her take another one.

I'm not the only one that stiffens with shuffling feet ready to barge in. Oliver had been leaning against the wall, reveling in his 'I told you so' victory, but now he's on alert. She had been fine. Had been...until now.

Her words echo within the small bar, "what the hell, Hank? What kind of monster punches a girl?" Still shocked, she dabs at her lip.

Who the hell does this man think he is? Obviously, they have some history, a squabble over something petty, but she's an Order soldier now and The Order is not to be offended. It's just another reason, an excuse that I make for her. If I make this about The Order and our superiority over pathetic citizens such as himself, it glazes over the fact that I want to beat him down for touching her.

"What kind of girl is a monster?" His reply makes me want to rip his throat out. He's the second person, hundredth person, who knows how many, to call her a monster.

The aggression that bubbles within her shows us a side of her that we weren't aware of. She slaps the drunk man before twisting his arm behind his back, slams his head against the table and pours his nightmare into the room for all to hear.

Oliver goes back to leaning against the wall enjoying the entertainment, while I stand rigid...dumbstruck at her strength. She's not so sweet and innocent after all.

It only lasts a minute or two before she lets the man go and demands that he keep his money and tells him to save for rehab. No matter how heartless she makes herself seem, she's completely opposite. She cares too much.

Our eyes meet as she leaves the man to whimper at the table. A quick glance before she cracks a joke to the bartender. She acts as if they like each other, but he clearly doesn't enjoy her company.

The second we step outside my frustration gets the best of me. She's so infuriating. I'm not even aware of the words I speak until she snaps at me, calling me out as being a jerk. A jerk? Of course she can't see that I care too much what happens to her. Like her I use anger to cover up things I don't want to admit. Having any sort of feelings for her isn't allowed. It's completely prohibited.

My temper is uncontrollable when it comes with her. She's incapable of listening, has no sense of self preservation and is absolutely breathtaking.