by J. Kenner
A hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I’m just messing with you. You did good work, Alice. Unexpected, but good.”
“Rather unexpected for me, too,” I said, then caught myself. “I mean, I never expected to get jumped.”
He looked me up and down. “Are you okay?”
There was such concern in his voice that I had to remind myself that only hours before, this man had tossed another person across a room as if he were nothing more than a sack of laundry.
“I’ll be fine.” Possibly not the truth, but it was the best I could do.
His eyes raked over me, his assessment like a physical touch.
I forced myself to remain steady, my legs suddenly not working properly. “Okay, then.” I nodded toward the pub’s back door. “I should get back inside.”
He moved closer, his hands closing around my upper arms, one hand warm and the other strangely cold. I took a step backward in a futile attempt to keep some distance between us, but he mirrored my movement. He was too close, and I was finding it harder and harder to think. As if he were radio interference keeping me from tuning in to my very own head.
“You haven’t told me why you were here,” I said, as much for something to say as because I was genuinely curious. His presence was a lucky break for me, but most men didn’t hang out in dark alleys waiting for damsels in distress.
“You’re the reason. I don’t handle being stood up well. I wanted to get to the bottom of it.”
“Oh.” I figured that was my cue to skedaddle. I took a sideways step toward the door. “Now’s not the time. I need to get back in before Egan—”
He stepped into my path, effectively blocking me.
“Hold up a second.”
“No, I really—” I looked him firmly in the eyes, then pressed my hand against his chest to push him away.
And that was when it happened.
The world around me melted away, starting with his eyes. They shifted, turning from brown to black to a boiling red.
I tried to gasp—to scream—but it was like I wasn’t there anymore. I was watching, but I wasn’t controlling.
And what I saw scared the shit out of me.
A kaleidoscope of images. Dark. Dangerous. Heat and lust and power and fear.
I heard myself gasp, but the sound was muffled by the distance between my body and my reality. Instead, the beat of my pulse filled my ears, the dull, rhythmic rush of blood through vessels, of life humming along with each beat of my heart.
Blood.
Hot and demanding, pulsing and throbbing.
Red silk, crushed velvet. A sensual feast full of terrifying pleasures.
Blood.
I tried to pull out of this vision, this dream, this whatever-it-was that had grabbed hold of me, but it wasn’t letting go. He wasn’t letting go. He was holding tight pulling me close, his pulse matching mine, the beat hypnotic and deep, drawing me in, threatening to drown me, to pull me under.
Hot fingers.
Bare flesh.
And desire as sharp as a blade.
Somehow, I’d gotten lost inside his mind. A vision I didn’t want but couldn’t stop. We were wrapped up in horrific images and sensual pleasures, and my instinct to run was countered by a desperate desire to stay.
Behind this strange curtain, my nipples peaked and the insides of my thighs ached. I moved closer, squirming against him, desperate to find satisfaction. But whether this was real or only in my mind, I didn’t know. Right then, I didn’t care. Right then, I knew nothing more than the touch of his hand and the desperate thrum of desire.
His fingers roamed my back, his body pressed so close to mine I could feel his heartbeat along with the steady tickle of his breath against my hair. Caution abandoned me as quickly as modesty had, and all I wanted was his touch, the feel of his skin against mine.
As if answering my prayers, his lips danced across my skin, finding my mouth, then claiming me in a wild, violent taking that left my body shuddering and my mouth begging for more.
He moved to break the kiss, but I pulled him back, frustrated when he resisted, as if he knew that some change was coming.
And then it was there—a flash—and suddenly my mind’s eye turned gray, painting us in black and white, all lights and darks, highlights and shadows. The shadows sucked us in, and with another flash, my mind was steeped in gold.
We were horizontal now, our bodies naked and slick and joined, and his eyes—I could see only his eyes. Warm and soft, without any hint of the rage I knew lurked beneath the surface. Only desire and need and longing so intense it pulled me—compelled me—until I wanted nothing more but to melt into him, to merge into one.
It didn’t last.
Those eyes, they changed in a flash. Snapping to a dangerous black, like a shark’s eyes. The change so fast, so sharp, I flinched, as if I’d been chastised for trusting too easily despite the man I’d seen earlier in the bar—the man inside Deacon who terrified me.
I tried to pull back, but I was too far gone. The lens of my mind turned red, but those eyes stayed black. A deep, yawing black that sucked me in, consumed me.
I recoiled from the abyss I saw before me. There is evil here.
I wanted to look away—I didn’t want to see. But I couldn’t help it.
And what I saw broke my heart.
Pain and loss and fear. It pummeled through me.
His pain. His loss. His fear.
All held out in front, like a talisman to hold at bay a flood of dark rage, bloodied anger, and a vile malevolence the depth of which could burn a hole in a man’s soul.
I struggled then, trying to pull away. Trying to get my head out of this dark place.
But I couldn’t break free. His hold on me was too strong.
You’re mine, his voice seemed to whisper in my head, the words so intense I would almost swear they were real. I looked down, my eyes finding a dozen white flowers, rivulets of blood running down the petals like rivers.
Lilies.
I gasped, dread shooting through me as the not-so-subtle symbolism broke the spell.
The images evaporated like so much mist, and I jerked suddenly, as if awakening from a trance, only to find my body pressed hard against him, my crotch rubbing against his thigh.
Mortified, I jumped back, my blood still pounding with desire and fear.
And when I looked up, I saw none of my confusion on his face. Instead, all I saw was anger.
“Goddammit, Alice,” he growled, snatching my upper arm with a motion too quick to dodge. “You swore if I helped you that you’d stay the fuck out of my head.”
8
I probably shouldn’t have run. Running made it seem like I was scared. Which I was. But that wasn’t something I wanted Deacon to know.
No, I should have stayed. Should have pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about. Should have pretended I’d never been inside his mind. Never felt that sensual burn, never seen the vile sheen of evil.
But so help me, I had. And so I’d broken free of his grip, and I’d run. And even though I heard him call my name, I didn’t look back. Instead, I ripped the door open and stumbled inside. I slammed it shut behind me, then threw the heavy bolt into place.
I leaned back against the metal, my breathing shallow and my heart pounding in my chest.
The Hell Beast might be an over-the-top, freak-me-out, blow-me-away terrifying monster, but it was a pussycat compared to what I’d glimpsed inside Deacon’s head and what I’d heard in his voice just now. Dark stuff. Scary stuff.
The kind of stuff that made Lucas Johnson seem like a stellar babysitting choice.
There was evil in Deacon—of that I was sure. But, dammit, I’d seen more than just the scary stuff. He was battling it back, fighting the good fight.
Whether he was winning, though . . . Well, that I couldn’t say.
From what he’d said, I was guessing that Alice had seen the stain of evil on him, too. And that her peek inside th
e mind of the man had pissed him off. Probably terrified her. She’d gone back, though. And she’d asked him for help.
Then she’d never shown up to get it.
She’d been murdered instead.
But Alice had thought that Deacon could help her, and now I had to wonder if he could help me. Maybe she’d told Deacon something. Given him some tidbit of a clue that would lead to her killer. And that was something I wanted to know despite Clarence’s warning. I needed to know it. Both to keep this new body of mine safe, and also to avenge the woman whose life I’d usurped. Clarence might think it was best left in the past, but I knew that wasn’t possible. I would find Alice’s killer. And right then, Deacon was the only lead I had.
Which meant that at some point I had to stop running and go face the man. A little tidbit that frankly, should scare me to death. But it didn’t.
Deacon compelled me. He excited me. This man who recognized demons for what they were—who held fury at bay behind the thinnest of barriers. This man who had set my body on fire with the slightest of touches.
A man who had promised aid to a frightened girl, and then worried for her when she hadn’t shown up.
A dark man, yes, but with light around the edges.
And a damn sensual man, too.
I was no stranger to instant lust—to that internal thrum when a hot guy presses you close on a dark and sweaty dance floor. This, however, was different. This was deep and pounding and almost sinister.
I wanted to feel the heat of his touch and taste the saltiness of his skin. I wanted to consume him, and be consumed.
Even now, his voice echoed in my head. You’re mine, he’d said. You’re mine.
There was something there—something between Deacon and me. But whether it was between Deacon and Alice or Deacon and Lily, I didn’t yet know.
Right then, I really didn’t care.
No. I closed my eyes, mentally lecturing myself. Don’t fuck up. This second chance was, literally, the answer to my prayers. I had a real chance to do some good here, to make up for a life that had taken a wrong turn toward crappy jobs and shady deals. And I wasn’t about to screw this opportunity by screwing Deacon.
I was making this work, and I was going to ask all the questions I needed, and I was going to be Über-save-the-world-chick.
I just wasn’t quite sure how.
“Alice!” Egan’s heavy voice boomed back from the front of the pub, saving me from my morass of thoughts. “What the hell, girl? You gone and get yourself lost again?”
I closed my eyes and drew in one deep breath as I tried to find myself in the mental mist. With some relief, I took stock, feeling like myself for the first time since I took down the demon.
I pushed away from the wall, mentally pushing Deacon away as well. Time to abandon the mysteries of that man and my reaction to him for the more immediate problem of sliding seamlessly into Alice’s real life.
I pulled on the sweatshirt I’d earlier removed, needing to hide the long gash on my arm. Then I assured Egan that I’d neither gotten lost nor abandoned my duties, and hurried to assist with the final closing chores. He’d sent everyone else home, and we went through the routine in companionable silence. If he noticed my hesitation as I considered the proper way to accomplish each task, he didn’t say.
I stood awkwardly when we were done, unsure. Would he offer me some bit of affection? A peck on the cheek or a pat on the shoulder?
When I’d been waiting tables earlier that evening, things had gone smoothly. Or, at least, smoothly enough to let me believe I’d fallen convincingly into the role of Alice. Now there were no shouted orders, no spilled drinks. Only me and this man who was supposed to be my uncle. A man who’d known Alice since she was born. Couldn’t he see? Couldn’t he tell?
As if sensing my fear, he looked up from behind the bar where he was gathering his things. He rested one beefy arm on the polished oak, then caught me firmly in the net of his gaze. “You in some sort of trouble, girl?”
“I—no. Nothing.”
He rubbed a callused hand over his beard stubble, his eyes never leaving my face as I forced myself not to squirm under his intense inspection. “Befuddled,” he finally said.
“Excuse me?”
“All night. You been out of sorts. And what with the way you ran out of here on Saturday, I can’t help but wonder if there’s not something you’re wanting to tell me. Like maybe you weren’t sick? Like maybe something happened to you on Saturday.”
I swallowed, then shook my head a fraction of an inch.
He exhaled loudly through his nose. “Have it your way. I ain’t gonna let my sister’s girls down. So if there’s something on your mind . . . ”
I hesitated, fighting an unexpected urge to find an ally in this man. He was Alice’s uncle, after all. Who better to help me fit into her life? The words, however, eluded me as much as trust did. I wasn’t Alice; he wasn’t my uncle. And the job I now had was a solitary profession.
I managed a shrug, trying to look bored and unconcerned. “There’s nothing. Honest. I was sick as a dog. So sick the weekend’s a blur, you know? I hardly ate, did nothing but sleep, and now I’m dead on my feet. I’m tired, Uncle Egan. That’s all.”
“Lost weekend, huh?”
I pressed my lips together and nodded.
His eyes narrowed. “You got the sight back?”
“What?” I swallowed, hoping the shock didn’t show on my face.
“You ain’t had a vision since you were a kid, even before your mama died. If you start seeing again, you need to tell someone. Don’t try to deal with it on your own.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said. “I’m not.” But my mind was whirling. Alice’s visions must have come back, because Deacon had known. But she’d kept the return of the visions secret from her family. Why? And had Alice told Deacon? Or had he discovered the visions on his own? Maybe even when Alice was poking around inside his head.
None of these was a question I could answer, so I fell back on that old standard. Denial. “I haven’t seen anything,” I said, meeting Egan’s eyes. “I swear. And if I did, I’d totally tell you.”
For a moment, I thought he was going to argue. Then he gave me a curt nod. “Then what the hell you hanging around for? Go on. I’m ready to go upstairs and crash,” he said, referring to the apartment he occupied above the pub. “Get home. And don’t be late tomorrow.”
“Right. I won’t. Right.” I hurried toward the door, more than ready to be out of there, even if that meant walking five blocks before I finally found a cab.
I started walking, warm in the red leather duster I’d found among the riot of pink in Alice’s closet. I kept my eyes open, searching the shadows, because now I knew what hid in the dark.
The velvety blackness seemed to shimmer as I moved, and I imagined dozens of yellow eyes peeking out at me, watching and waiting. I stepped up my pace, the boots I’d shoved on my feet clomping on the pavement. In my mind’s eye I saw the goblins gathering in mists, creeping up from sewers, soaring down on the backs of vultures. They were coming for me, and I wasn’t ready. Lord help me, I wasn’t ready.
In the distance, a taxi turned onto the street, and I stepped off the curb, my arm raised high. I stood there, willing the driver to see me, feeling naked and exposed as the devil’s minions watched me from the shadows.
Thankfully, the cab pulled over, and I climbed inside, wrapping the illusion of safety tight around me.
Because the reality was, I was never truly going to be safe again.
9
The cab pulled to a stop in front of Alice’s apartment, but I didn’t get out. That was a new life in there. A new name, new friends, and new rules to follow.
The truth was, I’d never been much good at following rules.
“Miss?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, sliding away from the door and back to the middle of the seat. “I need—I mean, can you take me to the Flats?”
He turned in his seat with a f
rown, an old man with skin the color of chamomile tea.
“I have the fare,” I assured, him, then rattled off the familiar address. “It’s home,” I added, though why I felt compelled to share that tidbit I didn’t know.
His forehead creased before he turned back to the wheel and reengaged the meter. A town on its own before Boston annexed it, Boarhurst—called “the Boar” by the locals—sits at the south edge of the Boston metro area. The Flats was north and east, a low-rent area near shipping channels. Industrial, blue collar, and utterly lacking in charm. During the day, the monotony of dismal facades was broken by splashes of washed-out color—laundry hanging out to dry, children’s toys broken and abandoned, potted flowers struggling toward the sun. At night, the entire area was monochromatic. I sat back in the cab and watched the black and white blur into gray.
The trip was pretty much a straight shot down the expressway, and at ten-fifteen on a Monday night, traffic was light I leaned back against the upholstery, trying to ignore the hell and damnation nipping at my toes. After all, it wasn’t like I’d promised not to go to the Flats, right? All I’d said was that I wouldn’t tell Rose what had happened to me.
I’d never once said I wouldn’t watch her.
“Here,” I said, leaning forward and pointing to the next exit off the expressway. “Then a left and a right at the light.” I fed him directions, weaving the cab through the dark streets to the shabby neighborhood that had been my home for so many years. “Anywhere’s good,” I said, my eyes on the gray clapboards that covered our nondescript house.
Once upon a time, the gray had been trimmed with bright blue and the yard had been awash with flowers. But that had been a long time ago, when my mother was still alive. Now the yard behind the chain link was dust. Two recycling bins stood like sentries, one on either side of the porch steps, overflowing with whiskey bottles and crunched-up cans of beer. A single planter—now brown and crumbling—remained as the only evidence that the residents had ever tried to bring life into that grim yard.
I’d tended those plants myself—robust lilies and dusty pink roses. Not the typical fare for a container garden, but I hadn’t been aiming for aesthetics. The plants were for me and my sister, something Rose could look at even when I wasn’t home. Something that would remind us both that even if I was away, we would always be together.