God Hears Them
By redwolf

God has numbered thy kingdom, and brought it to an end;
Thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting.

Mercy

Mercy slipped the plain, black gloves over her slim fingers with a sigh she felt from her tip to her toes. She wasn’t a big fan of getting up early. She thought it was completely pointless. She’d much rather get up in the middle of the day and stay awake until the early hours. Nothing important ever happened before midday. Mercy grabbed her keys off the dresser and left the house with another body-rattling sigh. Leaving the house was her least favourite activity by a long shot – but, of course, she had to on a daily basis. She did have a life, after all; and she had things to do, as much as she’d love to stay in her bedroom all day. At least, Mercy thought as she made her way down the road, pulling on a scarf to match her gloves, it’s winter.

She got strange looks for wearing gloves in the summertime. People asked questions. Why are you wearing gloves in July, Mercy? Aren’t you hot in that jumper? Do you think I have the plague or something? In a school as small as hers, her aversion to any sort of touching was noticed by a lot of people. In her last school, one of the bolder boys had got into his head to tease Mercy, prodding her in the back and the sides. She’d laughed it off – or attempted to, at least, not liking the look of this guy a single bit – until he’d slid his meaty hand up her sleeve and given her arm a good squeeze. She’d moved schools after that. That was roundabout the time when she’d started wearing gloves and long sleeved shirts every day.

Mercy shook off the memory with an annoyed shiver and kicked savagely at a pile of leaves. The day was bright, but freezing cold; her nose was already numb and the wind that whipped her dark hair around her head chilled her fingers, even through the gloves. It was only nine o’clock in the morning, and it already looked like it was going to be an extraordinarily cold day. Everyone would be wrapped up in jumpers and gloves and boots all day, no doubt. This was the sort of day Mercy liked.

Mercy hated cities as much as it was possible for someone to hate something. She loathed them. It was bad enough that they smelled like a cross between a drain and a car exhaust, and everything was ridiculously overpriced. But what she really hated was the crowds; everywhere you went: crowds. You couldn’t escape them. On the train, in the streets, in the shops, crossing the road, trying to get a seat in a café, queuing for the toilet, waiting for a bus – it was Mercy’s worst nightmare, again and again and again. But, of course, Christmas presents wouldn’t buy themselves, and it was easier to take a trip to Manchester and buy everything at once. It was only late October – Halloween, in fact, though she didn’t care for it – but Mercy liked to do her shopping early; the idea of going to the city during the Christmas rush was enough to make someone with Mercy’s gift feel faint.

The word “gift” brings to mind a talented musician, or a painter, or someone with a flair for writing. To Mercy, the word “gift” brought to mind her nine-year-old self, cowering under her bedclothes, wondering why her mother was crying and her father didn’t speak to her anymore. She saw herself accidentally brushing people in the corridor and not being able to look them in the eye again; touching someone’s hand in a coffee shop and realising you’d just been served by a serial rapist. Mercy never referred to her particular talent as a “gift.”

She called it a curse.

Mercy arrived at the train station and took a seat on a bench. She hadn’t brought a book – she generally liked to keep her hands in her pockets or her lap – and entertained herself by looking around at the other half-asleep people milling around her; some of them drinking tea, some of them reading the paper, some of them staring off into space, clearly wishing they were still in their beds. Knowing so much about people, Mercy was surprised that she wasn’t sick to death of them; she’d spent eighteen years surveying them at their very lowest, and yet she could still sit and watch people for hours. Sometimes, after a brush, she’d follow someone around; it was stupid and, knowing what she knew, dangerous, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know why the young man in the suit, who ate at The Four Seasons, greeted everyone with a smile and a handshake and drove a BMW would rob a petrol station with a hand gun. She wanted to know why the young model with the fur coat and hair that made Mercy green with jealousy wanted to kill herself.

The train pulled in and Mercy climbed on board, for once being able to slide through the passengers and take a seat without the worry of touching someone; the winter coats and cold train compartment meant that everyone was bundled up in several layers. She couldn’t always be careful; in fact, sometimes she just didn’t have the energy to avoid people. And, sometimes, she wanted to be touched. Sometimes she missed it so much she went and sought it, feeling all the while like one of the monkeys that presses the pleasure button instead of the food button. She curl up on the sofa next to her mother and let her brush the hair away from her face, pushing away the flashes and focusing on the feeling of skin on skin.

The train skidded to a halt at a station and a young couple got on, their bare hands clasped, braving the frostbite. Mercy wrung her own hands in her lap as she felt a surge of the usual jealousy that accompanied seeing others casually touching each other, and looked away. She’d considered having a boyfriend once or twice. It had been quite a fugacious fancy. She wasn’t bad looking; not by a long shot. People thought she was weird – and she was, really, all things considered – but once she’d shown some interest it didn’t take too long for someone to return it. But it was hard to concentrate on kissing someone properly when you knew they were only dating you on a dare from their friends; he was supposed to find out if she had a skin disease, or something. At least he’d felt bad about it. She’d given up on the boyfriend idea after that. Find me a teenage boy that hasn’t sinned, Mercy thought ruefully, and I’m his. Hell, at this point she’d probably settle for a girl. Not that you could find a teenager on this earth who didn’t have some sort of dirty little secret. And Mercy knew. She’d tried.

It was hard to be friends with someone when one brush of skin laid bare that person’s deepest, darkest secrets and sins for Mercy to peruse. She didn’t want to know if the girl who sat next to her in English had cheated on her boyfriend. She didn’t need to know that the boy who reached for the same book as her in the library stole twenty pounds from his mother’s purse that morning. She had enough worries without taking on other people’s accidentally, thank you very much.

As usual, Mercy felt her temper rising, and pushed it down with a calming breath. Being constantly bombarded by flashes of other people’s faults and flaws was enough to give anyone a short leash on their emotions.

Mercy settled for looking out of the window for the rest of the journey.

The train arrived at Piccadilly station at half-past ten, and Mercy stood up with some trepidation. People were flooding out of the carriage onto the busy platform, and Mercy was the last person to step off. She took a deep breath and let herself be carried away by the crowd.

00000

Ishmael

The boy called Ishmael climbed out of the car – a Bentley, the man had said, though Ishmael couldn’t tell one car from another, and frankly he didn’t care – a small wad of bills already disappearing into his back pocket; reminding him that, for now, he was safe enough. The cold air blew leaves against his legs and raised goosebumps on his arms; he shut the car door with a snap and zipped up his jacket, sidestepping a puddle in the gutter and moving into the shadow of a building to watch the car pull away from the pavement. It cruised slowly down the street and stopped at the traffic lights, driven, Ishmael knew, not by the owner but by a hired driver. Ishmael pressed a hand to his behind to feel the comforting lump of money there, then, on second thought, removed it and slid it into his front pocket. He would notice if anyone tried to nick it from there.

He ran a long-fingered hand through his hair, patting it down where it had been pulled and stood up in tufts, and wondered where the man would go next as the car slid out of sight. Home, maybe? A fancy bar? A strip club? Ishmael ran his tongue around his mouth and snorted; he doubted the latter. Someone brushed past him with a mumbled apology, jolting him from his reverie. He glanced around himself, taking in his surroundings; not too busy, but not empty either – thankfully. He didn’t want to run the risk of being caught somewhere alone. Luckily, he had been dropped off in a familiar part of the city, near where he was collected – indeed, the car had never even stopped since he’d stepped inside. He suspected that he had just been driven around and around the block for the past half an hour.

Deciding that he should use his recently-earned money for something useful, Ishmael crossed the road and began walking down the street, pulling up his hood against the cold. He stuck, as always, to the more populated areas; he steered clear of the alleyways, deserted parks and empty streets that others like him chose to haunt. He always felt safer near the bars, nightclubs and greasy spoons that lined the streets here – as safe as it was possible for him to be, anyway. He shivered at the thought and shrunk deeper into his over-sized jacket, like a turtle retreating into its shell. He cast his eyes around, his gaze lingering on the shadows, but could see nothing out of the ordinary; a group of men, one of them sporting devil horns on his head, were shouting and smoking outside of a bar on the other side of the road, and Ishmael could see a girl with fairy wings on her back shrieking into a mobile phone in a doorway ahead of him. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Nevertheless, he slipped into the nearest café thankfully, sighing as the warm air hit him in the face; a blessing. The café was mostly empty – it was only eight, after all; the people who nipped in for a coffee during their shopping were long gone and the hardened bar-crawlers wouldn’t be in for hours – and Ishmael claimed a booth for himself against the back wall, blinking under the harsh lights, suddenly aware of how hungry he was. He licked his chapped, cold lips and briefly glanced at a menu; he had been planning this meal since climbing into the obviously-wealthy man’s Bentley earlier, and didn’t need to study it for long.

As he waited for the waitress to come and take his order, Ishmael slouched down in his seat with a sigh, letting his head rest against the wall. He pushed his hands between his thighs to warm them, and closed his eyes, luxuriating in the heat that pulsed from the nearby radiator. He knew he shouldn’t let his guard down in such a public place – and on such a night – but he couldn’t resist it; he was so rarely warm, and he so rarely had money burning a hole in his jeans pocket.

When he opened his eyes, there was someone sitting in the booth next to his, facing him across the two empty tables.

Ishmael immediately snapped to attention, his heartbeat beating a hole in his throat. He swore under his breath and cursed his own stupidity; he should have been paying attention, not purring in the heat like a dopey cat. Now he was in trouble, and it was too late to make an escape. If he’d seen her when she’d arrived, he’d already be out the back door. But now she was situated, and he’d trapped himself against the back wall. Anywhere he moved, she’d get there first.

She wasn’t looking at him; she was staring moodily at a menu, concentrating on it, her dark brows pulled together and her lips pursed. But, despite the fact that her face was like a storm cloud, he recognised her other-worldliness at a glance. It wasn’t pronounced, but he was a pro; this was no girl. He didn’t know what she was; he couldn’t see her face… not like he usually could .It was distorted; she looked human, like any other girl, definitely not from the realm. She wore her skin too well. It was in the eyes. They were plain. Hazel. But the light that shone out of them was certainly not plain; it was dangerous.

Slowly, so not to alert her to the fact that he’d realised what she was – or, rather, what she wasn’t – Ishmael pushed up his hood and flexed his fingers. The girl had removed her coat and scarf, still looking at the menu, still looking as pissed off as it was possible to look – the hands that clasped the menu were gloved, and it caused Ishmael to pause; whatever she was, if she had to keep her hands covered, then chances were he wouldn’t be able to beat her in a fight. He’d once been attacked by a creature whose hands withered everything they touched. Ishmael’s sleeve had been completely burned away; his arm would have gone, too, if he hadn’t managed to free himself and leapt on the nearest bus just as the doors closed.

The waitress drifter over to the girl, and she ordered a cheeseburger and a coke in a surprisingly mellifluous voice. Ishmael raised an inward eyebrow. But he’d wait and see. The waitress came to him next, and he ordered a cup of tea – all hunger forgotten. At least he could use a hot drink as a weapon, if it came to it. The waitress bustled away, and Ishmael never removed his eyes from the girl; she never once looked at him, either surveying her gloved hands or watching the short-order cooks through the little window.

His tea came first, followed by her food. She slipped off her gloves. Ishmael tensed; this would be the end of the act. He gripped the handle of his drink, ready for her to pounce… when she picked up her burger – it didn’t wither, or burst into flames, or do anything except continue to look and behave like a burger – and took a bite with a look of all-to-human pleasure. Ishmael dropped his mug back on the table with a clatter, spilling tea onto his lap. He didn’t even notice. She swallowed her mouthful and looked up to meet his eyes. She glanced at him for barely a moment before turning back to her plate.

Ishmael stared. He had never – not once – been wrong before. He could still see it; the blurring around the edges of her face and the light that shone out of her eyes – he recognised it from surveying his own face in bathroom mirrors and shop windows; it was the look of the Other, and he knew it. Then it hit him: She has the Sight. He stared at her for a long second.

It didn’t occur to him that he could be wrong.

He got to his feet and slid into her booth, facing her across the table. She stopped eating and stared at him. “Can I help you?”

Ishmael stared at her. She wasn’t looking at him like he was some long-lost kinsman… she was looking at him like he was disturbing her dinner. “You- you’re like me,” he said lamely, barely disguising the excitement on his face.

The girl raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

“You have it,” Ishmael replied, and the girl stopped looking curious. She started looking scared.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said firmly, and Ishmael believed her; it wasn’t a ‘I’m pretending I don’t know what you’re talking about’ kind of ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ It was a ‘Please don’t attack me, crazy stranger’ kind of ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Ishmael sat back – unaware that he’d been subconsciously leaning towards the startled girl opposite him – and blinked. “But you…” he started, and then paused. “But I can see you.” The girl blinked back at him; Ishmael could still see that light in her eyes. “Can’t you see me?”

The girl had paled considerably since he’d started talking to her; she looked like porcelain next to her dark hair and brown eyes. She was about his age, maybe a year younger, and she was looking at him like she’d never seen anything so bizarre in her entire life. “I don’t understand,” she said in a small voice.

“You’re Other,” Ishmael said, and when the girl didn’t do anything except fidget nervously it hit Ishmael that he may be talking to a girl who didn’t even realise what she was. In the few seconds it took him to debate what to say and how to fix his untoward behaviour, the girl leapt to her feet, grabbed her coat and tore from the café.

Ishmael paused for a heartbeat, and then followed.

The girl had a head-start, but Ishmael was faster; he saw her turn right down and alleyway and sped up, weaving in and out of the people on the street, for once not caring to make sure it was safe. It wasn’t. He ran around the corner and was hit forcibly around the head. There was an ephemeral momentwhere all Ishmael saw was white light, and then he was brought back to his senses; the girl, who had now almost reached the other end of the alley, had waited for him to round the corner and hit him with her shopping bags.

“Wait!” Ishmael called. “Please, I only want to talk to you!”

The girl stopped at the mouth of the alley, out of breath, and turned to face him. “Why are you following me?” She panted, resting her hand on the wall to catch her breath. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” Ishmael said, blinking his eyes to attempt to get rid of the headache that was now rapidly forming. “I scared you. I’m sorry. I only want to ask you something.” The girl hesitated; she seemed to be considering whether to stay and listen or take flight again. “Please. Then I swear I’ll leave you alone, if you want me to.” Ishmael raised his hands; an international gesture for, ‘I’m not armed.’

The girl bit her lip and hoisted her coat more firmly in her arms. “Fine,” she replied, taking a step closer uncertainly. “What?”

Ishmael opened his mouth.

At that moment, something dropped on the girl from above, grabbing her around the throat; her scream was instantly silenced. It dropped her to the floor and Ishmael heard her cough weakly – he was hit with relief, quickly replaced by fear. The thing had turned to face him; it was humanoid, clearly, but it was too dark in the alley to see what flavour of awful it was. Then it turned away from him and grabbed the girl by the hair.

Ishmael was already running towards them when he saw the thing draw it’s sword.

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