Excerpt: Catwalk Books 4 and 5

Danny Mendoza slammed his fist down on the fake leather of his recliner. He spewed a stream of profanity at the screen. The Anaheim Anarchists were trailing 5-2 in the latest Murderball game. With their lineup, it was simply bad coaching. Danny could have done better. He brought the glass to his lips and was astonished to find it empty, again. He reached for the bottle of synth-vodka on his fold-out table. He was shocked when another hand covered his.

“Good evening, Detective Mendoza.”

Danny tried to remove his hand from the bottle, but the gloved fingers of his uninvited guest surrounded his own with inhuman strength. Danny thought of the pistol in the shoulder harness lying on the nearby couch. Only his eyes moved it its direction. No other muscle would respond.

As his vision adjusted to the dimly lit room, he realized that his guest wasn’t alone. A smaller, thinner form stood just beyond the stranger; veiled and silent. The form shifted, gyrated, in a rhythm he couldn’t understand. Danny grew instantly fascinated with every curve, every motion before him. He squinted to understand it…her….better, but couldn’t.

The guest’s voice drew his attention. “It’s quite a bit to digest, isn’t it, Detective Mendoza? It isn’t often that you entertain guests in your home, much less those who haven’t properly RSVP’ed….or those for whom you’ve paid.”

Danny tried to grit his teeth but his jaw felt locked in place. A hundred steel pins ran through his mouth, drilling into his gums. He tried to scream but that effort only invoked a sharp, agonizing sensation.

“It sounds like you need something for the pain, Detective. I’d like to offer you some Shine, but it seems as if you and your team have deferred my latest shipment.” The pale guest looked down at him through thin, mirrored shades. “Quite a disappointment to my clientele.”

The figure stepped away, but Danny regained no more control of his body. As the pale figure turned away, the shrouded woman moved closer. She seemed to glide over the floor rather than walk. Her hips, torso and shoulders moved in liquid motion. The sight of her intrigued emotions he couldn’t restrain. Danny felt fear creep into his chest. Somehow the silent figure was even more frightening than her talkative counterpart.

The silent, veiled female before him shifted her dance. Her movements became staccato; harsh, mechanical jerks and thrusts of muscle while her body remained fluid. She aroused and fascinated him, but fear overtook every other sensation that met his senses. Mendoza became fascinated with the mysterious woman as the male voice spoke again.

“That was quite a victory for your team, wasn’t it?” The man paused; emerging again on Danny’s other side. Leaning forward, he added, “I propose a toast.”

Danny felt his arm raise, extend and then bend. The acrid taste in his mouth signaled the entrance of the synth-vodka. He never tasted it, never savored it as he had in the past. This was simply a chugging contest. His eyes grew wide in panic. He turned his gaze to the shrouded figure, who continued to dance. Her movements grew more fractured, a seizure within a dance. Danny gagged and choked on the burning sensation of the vodka as the bottle continued to drain into his mouth.

His chest and throat were awash in flame as he struggled to protest. No word met his lips. He continued to pour the liquid down his throat. Breathing became a panicked wish and then the impossible. He vomited in his own mouth. Fortunately, it was liquid and most of it seeped down his face and over his shirt and comfortable recliner. His eyes darted side to side for something, anything, which might signal his escape.

The guest’s voice tore into him like talons. “Ah, well, we’re all out of your toast. I’d best offer my own then.” A grin crossed the unnaturally thin lips of the pale figure.

“Down the hatch.”

Detective Danny Mendoza felt his arm reach outward to full extension. Suddenly, the same arm moved toward his face, slamming the bottle into his throat, shattering the glass inside his mouth. He screamed in silent protest. Unable to escape his own muscle function, he felt the bottle crammed further into his mouth, severing his lips, lacerating this tongue and tearing apart his gums. He felt the cracked bits of glass tear their way down his throat and beyond.

Then came the taste…the sickening iron of his own blood. He couldn’t cry out…couldn’t beg…couldn’t even vomit. Within seconds, agonizing, torturous seconds which felt like centuries, Detective Danny Mendoza suffocated.