Blood nodded and stood up, keeping her arms spread. She seemed calm, and I wondered what she was doing. "If you're going to, then do it," she said, kneeling down next to her desk. She looked like a supplicant, someone happy to receive what I was offering. "I've been looking forward to it."
I squinted, surprised. "What?"
"You think I got into this because I like it?" Blood asked me, a haunted smile on her face. "I got into it because it was the only thing I was good at. I got into it because every drop of blood I draw, every little whimper of pain I deliver is a balm on my soul."
I nodded in understanding. I had heard similar stories before, and should have ignored hers. But for some reason, I had to know. "How old were you, Blood?"
"She was seven," Blood replied. "Carla was her name, and she was sold by her mother to pay off a drug debt. There were three of them, and the whole time she cried, tears mixing with the blood as she was torn open on both sides. By the time the third one was in her, Carla died. I was born, and it was I who killed my mother when I was eleven. Every weight I lifted, every pound of muscle I packed on was to make sure that nobody would ever hurt me again. When the money came in to let me hurt back, it was all too easy."
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.