Excerpt of Falling Blind by Shannon K. Butcher

Chapter 1

Kansas City, Missouri, October 29

There was not enough brain bleach in the world to scrub away the things Rory Rainey had seen. Her visions were getting worse, and if she didn't find the person who could make them stop, she was going to go bat shit crazy.

As frequently as the mental images were slamming into her lately, that inevitable insanity conclusion wasn't far away.

Rory kept her head down and her gaze firmly on the sidewalk in front of her. While her eyes saw only dirt and concrete dimly lit by streetlights, her mind saw much, much more. A riot of TV shows and video screens blazed in her head, one image superimposed upon the next, until it was all merely a blobby glow of color and light. Nearby, someone was staring down at a newborn baby. Someone else was reading a book, but there was too much visual chaos in Rory's head to make out the words. Brief glimpses of the same nearby sections of street fired in her mind, repeating over and over as the few people still out at the late hour drove by. As she moved down the street, she got close enough to a couple having sex in one of the surrounding buildings to catch what they were seeing.

The man was all fleshy and sweating, his face red with effort. The harnesses and implements twisting the woman into a vaguely pretzel–like shape made Rory speed her pace until that sight faded.

Ugh. Not enough brain bleach in the world.

She was in a bad part of town hit hard by the recession. The streets were lined with abandoned storefronts and condemned buildings. It was late and cold, and there was little foot traffic for her to collide with as she made her way to the homeless shelter she often visited. She didn't need the shelter—she had her own home. Nana's home. But that shelter was one of the places where she'd noticed the visions recede.

Little, fleeting moments of peace had come to her there. What she saw was real and hers alone, making it quiet and oh, so precious. At first she'd thought that she was getting better, that the space between mental barrages was getting longer. But then she left the shelter and the visions were there, waiting for her.

Her fumbling, painful experiments had led her to believe that someone inside that shelter was blocking her curse. If she could only figure out who they were and make them teach her how they did it, she'd be free.

But her potential savior had left, and Rory had never been able to track them down. Once in a while, her visions would fade and she'd know she was close, but she'd never figured out who was to thank for that reprieve.

A flash of hot pink hair and chain–clad leather burst in her mind, making her stumble in shock. Rory's hair was hot pink, and while she wasn't the only one who had that artificial feature, chances were slim there was another woman with her hair and jacket nearby.

Someone was watching her.

Rory tried to sort through the jumbled images to focus on who was behind her, but there were so many flashes, and most of them were so bright, she could hardly see the ground in front of her feet. There were too many people still awake in the city, too many sights slamming into her for her to latch on to a single one for very long.

And just because someone looked at her was no reason to wig out. Lots of people looked at her. That was one of the side effects of having hair louder than a freight train.

Still, her instincts were screaming at her, and she'd learned the hard way that she should trust them. As she continued walking, the hair on the back of her neck rose up in warning. Being out at night was dangerous. There were monsters everywhere, and for reasons she refused to think about, they wanted her.

Rory hurried her pace, anxiety driving her forward. She cut through an alley to get off the street and shorten her walk. The shelter wasn't far now, and while the remodeling wasn't finished, the doors were open, and they were letting people inside to escape the cold.

Bright pink consumed her vision, blocking out the wet pavement at her feet.

That was her hair—her back—and whoever was watching her had followed her down the alley. Definitely not some random pedestrian.

Well, hell. Now she had to do something. No way could she just keep walking, playing the role of prey. She'd never been much of an actress.

Rory stopped dead in her tracks, gripped the gun in her purse, squared her shoulders in a way that shouted she was not some fragile victim, and turned to face whoever was following her. She really didn't want to have to shoot someone, but after what Matt had done to her, she had learned to be more proactively defensive in her thinking. Two days and nights spent in a flooded basement filled with tentacled demons that lived on human flesh and blood had a way of curing a girl's poor decision–making habits.

Anxiety tightened her grip, but she kept her breathing even, struggling to see the alley looming in front of her over the splashy colors and lights in her head. She saw no one, only a slight flicker of motion she couldn't even trust to be real.

"I saw you," she yelled into the night, her breath misting in the cold air.

Another fleeting glimpse of pink came to her, again showing her the back of her own head.

There was no way someone could have slipped past her. Even with her crazy visions, she wasn't that blind—at least not yet. If the visions got any worse . . .

She wouldn't think about that now. She had to stay positive and convinced that there was a cure for her faulty wiring.

A low hiss rattled out from behind her.

Fear streaked along her veins, and she whirled around to face the threat, gun raised and level.

A demon stood there, black and shiny, easily blending into the wet pavement. Larger than a big dog, its forelegs were too long for its heavily muscled body, pushing it nearly upright. There wasn't a single hair on the creature, but something thick and oily seeped from its skin, leaving smears behind with every step. Its face was disturbingly human, with eyes that glowed a bright, sickly green.

Rory took a step back, unable to control the impulse to flee. The demon's pointed ears twitched as if it heard something, and a second later, in the midst of flashing sights that were not her own, she saw the back of her head again. Only this time it was much, much closer.

There was still someone behind her. Or something.

She steadied her gun and aimed at the demon in front of her while she spared a quick glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, the demon's bigger, uglier twin was right there behind her, its bright eyes flaring with hunger.

Rory knew better than to hesitate. This was a kill or be eaten kind of situation if ever there was one—something she was way too familiar with these days.

Stupid demons fucking up the city. Someone needed to get rid of them, and while she really wished that someone was anyone but her, there was no one else around.

She fired her weapon three times at the closest demon. Chips of brick flew out as bullets hit a building. One of her shots sucked less than the other two, hitting the demon in the shoulder. It roared in fury and cowered back, twisting its head at an awkward angle so it could lick its wound. From behind her, she heard the other demon charge, its claws scraping across the asphalt. She turned and pitched her body to one side, working to find a clear shot through the flash and sparkle filling her head.

She landed hard enough to rattle her teeth, but managed to stay on her feet. Before she could even steady the weapon, the demon was flying through the air again, claws extended and yellow teeth bared.

The beast really needed a good dentist. That random thought slid through her as she moved on instinct, leaping out of the way. Her shoulder slammed hard against a brick wall, no doubt adding to the bruises she naturally accumulated thanks to her shitty visions.

It was only when she tried to move again that she realized she'd hit more than her shoulder. Pain gripped her knee, scraping along her nerves and digging into her spine. Her leg refused to bend. She looked down and saw a small section of shiny nail protruding from under the side of her kneecap. Attached to that nail was a length of discarded two–by–four that ran back down to a pile of construction refuse. The board was over six feet long, and there was no way she could drag it along with her. But if she pulled the nail out, she'd bleed faster.

Rory knew the folly of that plan way too well. If she bled, these two demons would become the opening act to dozens more.

One of the demon's eyes flared as it smelled her blood, and charged.

She was used to fear. She'd lived with it for years, and she had been intimate with it briefly for a couple of horrible nights. That time had taught her how to function despite the terror screaming through her, but that didn't mean she didn't feel it. Her poor ribs were taking a beating as her heart thundered against them. The clammy chill of sweat coated her skin, making the gun harder to hold. But holding it was important, so that's what she did.

She raised the weapon and fired it, sending the greasy beast skidding back on the wet pavement.

That wouldn't keep it away for long. There were only a few more bullets in her gun. She had no choice but to free herself and hope she could run fast enough and reach the shelter before the rest of the demons nearby smelled her blood and came running. Because they definitely would.

She pulled in a deep breath and jerked the nail from her knee. The bent metal was coated in her blood, and she could feel wetness cooling on her jeans.

Both demons were slinking toward her now, their forelegs awkwardly bent to their sides, their muzzles low to the ground as they wove their way closer. One lifted its head and howled, letting out an eerie, mournful sound.

From somewhere a few blocks away, an answering howl rose up. And a little more distant, another. Then another.

Sometimes she hated being right.

Those howls were the dinner bell, and Rory was the main course.

Like hell.

She aimed for the head of the bigger demon and fired. Her shot was clean, and a chunk of oily skin and bone erupted from the thing's head. It staggered and took a clumsy nosedive into the street, legs twitching. Its twin bent down and licked the wound, though whether it was helping or hurting the wounded beast, she had no idea. Nor did she give a fuck.

She hadn't killed it—not if it was like most of the creatures she'd seen. All she'd done was buy some time and increase her odds of surviving, if only from zero percent to one percent. One ravening demon was more than enough to kill her just as dead as two could.

Someone in an apartment nearby looked into a nearly empty refrigerator, and whatever magic curse haunted her decided that she really needed to see a bowl of fuzzy green stuff right now, instead of the demons trying to kill her.

Frustration raged inside of her, but she tamped it down. She had to stay calm and focus on what was real and in front of her. The angrier she got, the more chaotic her visions would become—the more blind she'd become.

Rory shoved out a harsh breath, and backed away from the pair of monsters, easing her weight onto her injured leg. It held, but the pain grew worse with each step. The cold, wet spot on her jeans drooped down farther, reaching her shin now.

Somewhere nearby, a finger bent with age and arthritis dialed 911.

Shit. Poor cops had no idea how to deal with demons. Some ignorant, law–abiding citizen had just sent the protect–and–serve team into the jaws of evil. Literally.

Maybe if she was out of here fast, the demons would go away and not nom on the cops' faces. It was the only chance they had.

Before she could take so much as a step, the sight of dead, brown grass filled her mind, sliding past her fast. It was lit by a bright, green glow that glinted off of a blunt, shiny muzzle that looked just like those of the demons in front of her. And then the vision shifted and she saw another muzzle pointed down at a dirty street, and another lifted high to stare at the top of a chain–link fence, and another slinking under a parked semi.

Fear chilled her skin and tightened her muscles, and she had to make a conscious decision not to go into a screaming tailspin of panic. More demons were coming, getting closer. She had to get out of here—both for her sake as well as the cops'.

Rory took another step and her knee buckled under her weight. She nearly fell, catching herself against the wall before she completely lost her balance.

A scratching sound behind her warned her that something was coming. She flattened her back to the wall and split her attention between the pair of demons and whatever was coming now.

It was small—the size of a rat, but hairless and sporting a barbed scorpion–like tail that curved up over its back. Three glistening spines caught a sparkle of streetlight as its claws scrabbled over the pavement, heading straight for her. Six tiny, glowing eyes lit its path.

Rory had no idea what it was, but she knew what it was going to be in a second: dead.

She aimed and fired, finally hitting where she aimed for once. The little demon—or whatever it was—splattered into a greasy stain. Droplets of black blood sizzled across the pavement, sending up thin tendrils of smoke.

Definitely a demon.

She was feeling pretty pleased with herself, congratulating herself for the shot when she heard more scratching coming from around the corner. Not twenty feet away, she saw a faint, green glow. And then she saw what was making it.

Dozens of those barbed scorpion–tailed things came scurrying toward her, moving faster than she could run.

She didn't have enough bullets. She couldn't put weight on her fucked–up knee. The only exit was blocked by the pair of greasy black demons. Only seconds has passed since she'd looked away from them, but she didn't dare turn her attention away for long.

She needed a way out. Fast.

Rory leveled her weapon at the biggest threat. The demon she'd shot in the head was back on its feet. The hole in his skull had begun to seal shut already. The smaller demon was several feet closer to her, and she could see flashes of her own face, pale and terrified as it stalked nearer.

She glanced up, hoping for a convenient fire escape, but there was nothing above her but clear, black sky and boarded–up windows way too high to reach.

She pulled in a fortifying breath, working hard to shove out some of her fear as she exhaled. The gun bucked in her grip. The closer demon yelped and flinched, but didn't go down. She fired again, and again, each shot sliding it back a bit, but making no real difference. The things kept advancing, and she swore they were grinning at her, their green eyes glowing with malicious intent.

Her gun clicked. She was out of bullets. But she wasn't about to give up and let these fuckers have her. She'd survived worse odds than these.

Of course, she hadn't been bleeding then, either, calling every hairy, slimy, scaly thing nearby to come and take a bite.

Rory dropped the gun and grabbed the long board that had stabbed her with its inconveniently placed nail. The wood was cold in her grip, but it felt solid and real. If she was going down, she was doing it Babe Ruth style.

One of the little things hit her shoe and started crawling onto it. She tried to fling it off with a hard kick, but the pain stalled her out, and the thing held on. She slammed the end of the board into it, crushing its head and her own toe.

Pain sliced through her, stealing her breath for a moment.

Her attention had been shifted to the little scorpion thing for less than three seconds, but as the vision of her own head getting close filled her mind, she knew that had been too long a distraction. The bigger demon lunged for her, and she was completely flanked, and completely fucked.

The world slowed as adrenaline flooded her body. She turned and began shifting her weight to fling herself out of the way. The jaws of the demon were wide open, its yellow teeth only a couple of feet from her head—close enough to see black blood coating them and pulpy bits of greasy flesh stuck between them. The rotten stink of its breath made her gag.

She lifted the board to protect her face, but even as she began to move, she knew she wouldn't be fast enough. There wasn't enough time to get the board in the way before those jaws closed on her head.

This was it. This was how she was going to leave this earth—bleeding, afraid and alone, while the rest of the world moved on as if nothing had happened. The fact that she could see them going about their routines rubbed her nose in just how small and insignificant her life really was. Now that Nana was gone, no one would miss her. As distant as she kept people, chances were no one would even know she'd died. These things would haul her off and eat her, leaving no evidence behind.

What a sad, little life she'd led, full of fear and suck.

A metallic sound filled her ears, followed by a solid thwack. The open jaws careening toward her jerked down suddenly and hit her shin, but there was no force behind the blow. The muzzle simply bounced off, and the head rolled away.

It had no body.

Confusion clouded her mind as she tried to figure out what she was seeing. Was this another vision? Something happening nearby? If so, then why wasn't she dead and seeing nothing?

Rory blinked, hoping to sort out reality.

A man loomed a few feet away, too big to be real. He held a wide sword in his huge hands. The gleaming blade was coated in black oil. His giant body moved fast, muscles straining the seams of his leather jacket.

She didn't trust her eyes, and yet this all seemed quite real. It even sounded real. Her visions were silent.

At the man's feet lay the body of the demon that had nearly killed her. Black blood arced out of its neck in a pulsing spray that got weaker and weaker with every spurt. In front of him was the larger demon, staying low and out of range of that lethal blade.

He'd saved her. He'd lopped off the head of the demon and saved her face from being eaten. That wasn't supposed to happen. That wasn't the way her life went these days. Things were supposed to suck, just like they always did.

And yet there he was, still there, not vanished like a fleeting vision.

Rory's world began to make sense again, but the shock of still being alive hadn't faded. A sense of joy filled her up with her next breath. She wasn't dead. The world was still moving on, but she was moving with it.

The big man's back was to her, and he was slowly circling the demon, angling it back into a doorway for an attack. For a moment, all Rory could do was stare. He was smooth, each move flowing into the next in a seamless transition of power and strength. Muscles in his thighs bulged under his jeans, and when he stepped in a shallow puddle, his boot barely made a ripple. Even the mist from his breath curled out slow and lazy, rising into the night as if it had all the time in the world.

Graceful power radiated out from his every gliding step. Shadows caressed him, holding him close in a lover's embrace. He seemed too solid—grounded as if nothing could so much as rock him. And it wasn't just his size that gave her that impression. She felt something sliding out of him—a heavy kind of energy that pinned her in place, mesmerizing her. She could stare at his broad back all day and never grow bored.

A sharp pain stabbed her ankle, jerking her attention back to reality. She looked down and saw that one of those little scorpion demons had stung her and was now scurrying away, its barb shining wet with her blood.

That pain made sense. That was how her life was supposed to go. She got a beautiful visual treat in exchange for the low, low cost of being stabbed by a demon.

The board was still in her hands, and she batted it at the little fucker, hoping to squash it dead. Her aim was off, and she only winged it, sending it into a skittering spin.

The thing righted itself and sped off. The others of its kind veered around her and went straight for her savior in black leather.

"Behind you!" she called out, even as she pushed herself forward, using the board as an awkward crutch.

The man spun around in a fluid arc that was way too graceful for someone his size. Between his big, booted feet, she saw the head of the second demon roll across the pavement and bounce into a brick wall.

Whoever he was, she was glad he was on her side. At least he was for now.

Rory slammed her board down on one of the rat–sized things, turning it into a greasy black stain.

The man booted one of them into a wall hard enough to make it pop like a water balloon. The rest of the swarm must have seen it happen, because they moved as one, like a flock of birds, reversing direction to flee. Sec–onds later, they were gone, back around the corner the way they'd come.

He scanned the area, searching for more signs of a threat. His wide shoulders lifted with each even breath, and that big sword was still in his grip, ready for action. Dim light gleamed off his blade, as if collecting specks of it from the inky shadows. He wasn't looking at her, but she still felt his awareness as keenly as if he'd been staring.

"You're hurt," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Only a little. I'll live."

His gaze hit her then, and drove the breath from her body. His eyes were a deep, earthy green, set below thick, dark brows. The bones of his face stood out, forming rigid, masculine angles. His jaw was a bold statement of strength, the muscles there bulging with determination. It wasn't his good looks that she reacted to, either, though he was a fine–looking man. There was something else in those dark eyes, something potent and stark, with a kind of desperation she'd seen only a few times in her life—usually in those who knew they were about to die. Pain radiated out from him, quivering in the small lines around his eyes, so much a part of him she wasn't even sure he was aware of how obvious his agony was to anyone who cared to see it.

She couldn't look away. His pain called out to her, making her ache in ways she didn't understand. It was as if something inside of him was reaching for her, screaming in torment.

Rory shut her eyes to block out his silent pleas for help. A vision of an elderly woman's sleeping face appeared for a moment before it faded behind closing eyelids.

She pushed aside the visions, trying to concentrate on what was real and looming in front of her—all six and a half feet of him.

He took a step closer, scrutinizing her, and she felt that scrutiny glide along her body, down to her cold, throbbing toes. By the time his gaze had made its path from her head to her shoes and back again, she felt stripped bare, was trembling and defenseless. And that pissed her off.

She knew what he saw: the pink hair, the heavy makeup, the multiple piercings. No one ever really saw her beneath the shock factor, and that was the way she liked it. At least until now. For some stupid reason, she wanted this man to see her—the real her—all the way down to her bones.

His gaze slid over her face, then lowered to where she was bleeding. She couldn't tell if he was sizing up her injury because he cared or because he was looking for some weakness he could exploit. His face was about as expressive as a marble wall, so there was no way to know for sure. What she did know was that if he sent that sword sailing in her direction, there wasn't a damn thing she could think to do to stop him from slicing her in two where she stood.

His voice was low and deep, rumbling out of him like stones rolling down a mountain. "Come with me."