Born in Darkness

by J. Kenner

  “I’m adjusting just fine,” I said, then pushed up off the sofa. “I’m some prophesied superchick, right? So come on. Let’s take me for a test-drive.”

  Clarence stared at me for a moment, and I found myself wishing I could read his mind like he could read mine.

  “You know what? You’re right. Time for you to get to work.”

  “Yeah?” I couldn’t keep the eagerness out of my voice. “So, what does that mean exactly? I get a sword? A secret decoder ring? Fencing lessons?”

  He eyed me sideways. “There’s your work, and then there’s Alice’s. And for that, you’re running late.”

  “Oh.” I could feel the excitement levels spiraling downward, and I eyed him warily. “So what do I do?”

  “You’re a waitress,” he said, and then he grinned. “Wear comfortable shoes.”

  5

  I have to admit that the ride to Alice’s work in the limo was pretty cool. I’d ridden in it before, obviously, but the ride was much sweeter when I was conscious.

  Tucked in near the cemetery and Torrent Park, the Bloody Tongue had been founded back in the 1600s and, according to local lore, had been owned by the same family ever since. It’s remained in its original location and now was on the cusp, straddling a not-so-great neighborhood and an urban redevelopment area that was drawing in the young professionals. Haunted Boston tours ended there, which was how I knew about the place. Right after I’d started working at Movies & More, my manager had taken me out for drinks and screams. The tour had been more interesting than the guy, which made for some uncomfortable late shifts until he decided that the exciting world of video rental wasn’t for him.

  As the limo idled in a loading zone, I stared nervously out at the facade. I’d changed into the traditional waitress garb I’d found hanging on a hook inside Alice’s closet. Black pants. A black tank top under a white sweatshirt with the Bloody Tongue logo. Not a drop of pink to be found—thank goodness. But though I looked the part, I didn’t feel it, and I was stalling.

  “So tell me about Alice. I get the kudos, and she gets the knife? What’s up with that?”

  What I didn’t ask—what I wanted to ask, but couldn’t—was whether Alice had died because I’d chosen life. The mere thought made me want to spew chunks. But what really got my stomach twisting was that even if I’d known that my words would have nailed Miss Pretty in Pink, with death and hell on the line, I would have made the same damn choice.

  I closed my eyes, hating my cowardice even as I owned up to it.

  Clarence eyed me from under his fedora. “Her death had nothing to do with you.”

  I looked down pointedly at my new body.

  “Ain’t what I meant,” he said. “She was murdered.”

  I hugged myself. “Who did it? And how did I end up . . . you know . . . in her?”

  “I don’t know who did it—honest—and hers was the only available body when the opportunity arose.”

  “She’s not like me, is she? Alive in another body, I mean.” A horrifying thought struck me. “She’s not in my body?”

  Clarence chuckled. “Your body’s tucked in at the morgue, and Alice’s soul has moved on. Don’t worry. You ain’t gonna run into your own body on the street one day.”

  “Oh.” Said that way, the scenario seemed rather silly. Still, I was glad for the reassurance. “Do they know? Rose? And Joe?” I asked, referring to my stepfather.

  “Yeah. Neighbor found you in Johnson’s basement. Cops came. Whole nine yards. Joe identified your body.” The compassion I saw in his eyes almost brought me to tears. “Sorry, kid.”

  I nodded, afraid to try to speak right then. After a moment, I drew in a breath. “So why couldn’t I just get my body back?”

  He looked at me patiently, as if talking to a child. “You died, Lily. You did a dumb thing, and you died. Not like we’re gonna just give you your old body back. It really doesn’t work that way.”

  “Right. Forgive me for being a little hazy on the details of how resurrection or whatever it is does work.”

  “Eh. You’ll figure it all out,” he said magnanimously.

  “And you really don’t know who killed her? Isn’t he going to be a little pissed to find out I’m still alive?”

  “He? You didn’t strike me as the sexist type.”

  I stared, wanting an answer.

  “I really don’t know, and I really couldn’t say.”

  “I thought that God knew everything,” I countered.

  “He may, pet. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to tell me. Now, quit stalling.” He nodded at the limo door. “Time to go.”

  As if on cue, the door opened, and I saw our tall, thin driver on the sidewalk.

  I slid to the door and started to climb out. “But don’t I need a cheat sheet or something? A primer on How to Be Alice?”

  He tapped his head and grinned. “You’ll figure it out.”

  And as he said it, the driver took my arm and gently tugged me the rest of the way out of the limo. Then he slammed the door. I stood there, gaping, a cry of “Hey!” hanging on my lips.

  The driver, however, was uninterested, and though I knocked on the window and tried the door, Clarence didn’t emerge.

  I stood there seething as the limo pulled away from the curb, and then, as it disappeared around the corner, I turned to face the doors to the pub, remembering what he’d said only moments after I’d met him on the sidewalk near the alley. About being thrown into the testing. This was a test. Prove I was clever enough to play Alice, and I got a gold star. Screw up, and I’d be up close and personal with a blade. Again.

  No pressure or anything.

  I took three deep breaths, said a quick prayer for courage, and pushed through the battered double doors, still accented by the original stained glass. On my first visit, the place had been bustling, filled with the late-night crowd. Now it was early Monday evening, with only a few patrons nursing beers or snacking on any number of fried delights. Most looked up as I entered. A few nudged each other and pointed, and a smattering paid no attention at all.

  The knot in my stomach tightened a bit, and I wondered how I’d manage to pull this off. I’d waited enough tables over the last few years to know the general routine, so I figured I could muddle through the forest of pints, fish and chips, and Scotch eggs. It was the friends, coworkers, and regular customers that were worrisome.

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to move before I got arrested for loitering. Two stairs led down to an uneven wooden floor, and I managed them without falling on my face. On the whole, the place looked as it had on my last visit. Tables dotted the dim interior, all the more dark from the oak-paneled walls and the red velvet booths that lined the south wall of the establishment.

  There were no booths along the back wall, but the area bustled with the activities of serving drinks and food. To the right of center, metal doors swung open and shut, revealing glimpses of a hopping kitchen and giving the corner a feeling of hyped-up energy. A few yards over from the kitchen commotion, at dead center, a dark hall led into the back of the pub, the cavernous entrance marked by a neon sign announcing Lavatories.

  A massive stone fireplace filled the space to the left of center—part of the original construction and highlighted by an ornately carved mantel now littered with framed photos of celebrities and politicians who’d stopped by the pub over the years. A couch on spindly legs with cloven feet dominated the area in front of the flames, and the two dark-haired women who sat there took a moment from their intense conversation to turn in unison, their curious eyes drinking me in.

  I swallowed and looked away, now focusing on the U-shaped bar that commanded the center of the room. Dozens of bottles in varying degrees of emptiness cluttered the tiered center display area, and sparkles danced off the glass in a poor man’s version of a chandelier.

  The U itself was made up of polished oak, tall bar stools spaced every two feet or so. In the U, behind the bar, a white-haired man stared at m
e. His brows had lifted as if in surprise as I’d come through the door, but now he watched my approach with flat, expressionless eyes.

  “You’re late,” he said mildly, when I was about ten feet away. “You okay, girl?”

  “I—I’m sorry.” I rushed forward. “I wasn’t feeling well, and—”

  “That why you disappeared on Saturday? I send you to the stockroom and you never come back?”

  Saturday. That was the night I’d gone after Johnson. Which meant it must have been the night Alice died, too. And if she’d run out, then maybe she’d known she was in danger. More than that, maybe it meant that the danger was at the pub.

  I glanced around the bar, checking out the faces, trying to discern whether anyone seemed surprised to see me alive. As far as I could tell, everyone was more interested in their beer than in my living, breathing presence.

  “Yo. Whatsa matter? Your ears stuffed up?”

  I snapped to attention. “Sorry. I was, um, sick Saturday. I shouldn’t have run out like that.”

  “Damn straight. Shoulda called in on Sunday, too.” His brow furrowed and his mouth pulled down into a frown. “Let me know you were okay.”

  “I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Better not. You okay now?”

  “I’m fine. Promise. Just a little fuzzy-headed.” I managed a weak smile. “I didn’t really eat much the last day or so.”

  “Hmmmph. Tell Caleb to make you up some fish ‘n’ chips.”

  “Thanks.”

  He made a gruff noise in his throat, then reached for a bar rag and began polishing the brass. “Can’t have you passing out while we got customers needing food. And Gracie can’t handle this place alone. I think we pretty much answered that question in the negative this weekend. Had to call Trish in, and she weren’t none too happy.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about until I followed the direction of his gaze and landed on a ponytailed twenty-something in a white T-shirt with the Bloody Tongue logo silk-screened on the back. She was fumbling with the half apron she wore around her waist, trying unsuccessfully to count out change and make small talk at the same time. Gracie, I presumed. The unhappy Trish, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  I conjured a smile. “So, I guess I should get to work.”

  “I’d say so. What’s with your hair?”

  “My hair?”

  “You forget the rules? Get it back in a ponytail.”

  “Oh. Right. Wasn’t thinking.” A tall blonde with pencil-thin legs and severely highlighted hair came in from the back holding a prep tray of lemons and oranges. Trish, I presumed. And her hair was in a high ponytail, the same as Gracie.

  “So what are you standing around for? Get it done and get to work.”

  “Right.” I hooked my thumb toward the kitchen. “I’ll just go find a rubber band.”

  I was passing Trish on my way to the kitchen when a female yelp underscored by the clatter of breaking glass stopped us both. The sound came from a far corner of the bar, and I turned in time to see Gracie on her rear, shattered pints littering the floor around her.

  But compared to the spectacle playing out above her, Gracie sprawled on her ass was hardly even worth commenting on. Because even as she picked herself up off the floor, the limp body of a huge man was hurtling through the air.

  He collided with the wood-paneled wall with such force it shook the sconces, then slammed down, shattering a table beneath him.

  “Goddammit!” shouted the bartender, rushing out from behind the bar.

  I took a step forward, but Trish’s hand on my shoulder stopped me. I started to protest, then saw who she was looking at: a man, tall and dark, rippling with uncontrolled rage and thrumming with raw energy. He stood a good ten feet from the injured man, but there was no doubt, no question in my mind, that this mysterious man had tossed his victim like so much garbage that entire distance.

  Now I watched, unable to draw my eyes away, as he clenched and unclenched his hands. He took one step forward, then stopped, the effort clearly costing him. At any other time, I imagined that his face was uniquely handsome—a strong jawline, a once-broken nose, and eyes that took in the world beneath a strong brow. Now that face was contorted, still lost to whatever dark urge had powered his victim ten feet through the air.

  “I gotta check him,” I said, my EMT training kicking in. I hurried to my charge, purposefully avoiding eye contact with his attacker. I bent down, speaking softly as I gently probed his flesh, manipulating his limbs as I looked for breaks and fractures.

  I heard movement behind me and turned long enough to see the mysterious attacker cross the pub in long, even strides. He met my gaze once, his eyes a brown so dark they looked black, with tiny flecks of gold that caught the light. Powerful eyes, and for a flash I saw recognition there, so intense it made my heart stutter. But it was stifled in an instant by the fury that boiled beneath the surface, so close to bursting I feared the explosion could well destroy the man.

  Without warning, he lashed out, swiping two pints off a nearby table before stalking out the front door, leaving the pub so silent you could hear the beer seeping into the floorboards. The door slammed behind him, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

  I swallowed, my attention returning to the guy on the floor, my demand for a flashlight ringing out above the nervous titter of resumed conversation.

  Trish appeared at my side, and I checked the battered man’s eyes.

  “What are you doing?” Trish asked.

  “Making sure his pupils are dilating evenly,” I said. “I, um, read about it in a first-aid book.”

  “Yeah? No wonder you’re always acting like such a smart girl.”

  I cut her a look, but she smiled sweetly. Apparently Alice and Trish weren’t exactly the best of buds.

  We tried to help him up, but the man was clearly back to his old self, full of masculine self-sufficiency and gruff embarrassment. He pushed us away, then climbed to his feet, shooting a malevolent glance toward the front door, following the direction his attacker had taken.

  “Go home, Leon,” Trish said. “Cool down. You don’t want to take him on when he’s like that, and you know it.”

  The look Leon shot her was pure contempt, but he took the advice, stalking to the door and disappearing into the night.

  I looked around for the bartender, then found him coming in from the back, pushing a mop and bucket. “Shouldn’t he have gone after that guy?” I asked Trish. “I mean, this is a lot of damage.”

  She lifted a brow. “What planet are you on today? Like Egan would go after Deacon when he’s like that. Not damn likely.” She shrugged, then pulled out a handful of tips and started counting them, as if this were any old conversation between waitresses. “You may think he’s not too bad, but honestly, the guy scares the crap out of me.”

  She headed off, and I stared after her before cutting my gaze over to where Deacon had disappeared.

  If I’d been smart I’d be scared, too. But my brains must have taken a hiatus, leaving only ripples of curiosity and sparks of awareness behind.

  6

  After Leon left and the crowd dispersed, I cleaned up the broken glass, then continued on to the kitchen where the cook, Caleb, made me a basket of the best fried cod I’d ever tasted. The only thing missing was a pint of Guinness, but I seriously doubted that drinking on the job was copacetic, even though I’d probably do a better job waiting tables with a hint of a buzz. While I was eating, Gracie came in and graciously gave me an extra ponytail holder.

  “Table four,” Egan the bartender said as I came in, full and ponytailed and ready to start my shift. While I’d been eating, he’d carted the splintered table off somewhere, and everyone in the pub had gone back to business as usual. Not me; I felt itchy and out of sorts, and my mind kept returning to that look in Deacon’s eye. It was Alice he was looking at, of course, but I couldn’t shake the sensation that he’d seen me—Lily.

  “Get y
our head out of the clouds, girl,” Egan said, pushing a tray holding two pints a few inches down the bar toward me. “Get to work.”

  I hurried to take the tray. A laminated sheet with a handwritten layout of the tables hung behind the bar, and I used it to get my bearings. Table four was in the back, opposite the corner where the now-smashed table had been earlier. I headed that way, walking carefully so I wouldn’t spill the lager, my head full of questions, most of them about Deacon. Who was he, this man from whom rage had burst like a volcano? Trish had said that Alice didn’t think he was “too bad,” an assessment that made no sense whatsoever. Either Alice had a seriously screwed-up view of life—a theory I was willing to get behind, considering her apartment vomited pink—or I was missing the bigger picture.

  Or perhaps Alice had been wrong about Deacon. Maybe he was so bad after all. And maybe it was her calm complacency around such a dangerous man that had ultimately cost Alice her life.

  “You picked a bad day to piss off your uncle,” a biker dude at table four said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  “Apparently,” I said, mentally connecting the dots and realizing that Egan the bartender was Alice’s uncle.

  “Where did you go, anyway?” his companion asked, this one in jeans and a flannel work shirt, his eyes hidden behind aviator glasses. “After you pulled your disappearing stunt on Saturday, it took forever to get my bangers and mash.”

  “Oh. Um. Sorry.”

  He held up his hands. “Hey, don’t apologize. I’ll just take it out in your tip.”

  “I—”

  He barked out a laugh. “Gotcha.”

  “Lighten up, Alice,” Biker Dude said to me. “You’re walking on fucking eggshells.”

  “Headache,” I said with a shrug. “More like a migraine.”

  I turned away, not sure I could take another round with those two, and returned my attention to more important things. Being Alice. Sliding into her life. And, hopefully, reaping some clue as to what had happened to her.