by Mari Mancusi
He pulls away for a moment, allowing me to suck in a much-needed breath. I catch my reflection in his mirrored shades, almost not recognizing my own flushed face. Before I can speak he leans into me, crushing his mouth against mine. His fingers claw at my arms, his mouth bruises my lips. Fear pounds at my heart. I realize I need to do something—fast.
I pull back my knee, then let it go. He falls backward, jerking away as if he’d been shocked. Head bowed, crouched over, hands balled into fists. Even with his glasses, the fury is clear on his face.
“Nice to see you again, too, Mariah,” he growls, his voice low and guttural, with an accent I can’t place. He starts to straighten.
“Don’t come any closer!” I cry out, praying he’ll obey. I know some self-defense—I grew up in NYC and my mom insisted on it—but I’ve never practiced on a real enemy. “I’ve … got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.” Yeah, right, Skye. And a bridge to Brooklyn, too.
I hold my breath, waiting for his next move. Will he retaliate? Or let me go?
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, surprising me. “That was uncalled for, I guess, given the circumstance. I was just … I don’t know. Happy to see you. Stupid, I know.”
“No kidding that was uncalled for!” I cry, rubbing my sore back, glaring at him. “You can’t just grab some random stranger off the street and start kissing them like that! I mean, who do you think you are?”
He turns to me, ripping off his shades for the first time. I gasp. His eyes are the most brilliant blue I’ve ever seen. They’re so intense they practically glow. I’m mesmerized, and for a moment I can’t look away. This is, without a doubt, the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Also, perhaps, the angriest.
“Are you for real?” he demands. “Who do you think I am? Come on, Mariah. I don’t have time for these games.”
Mariah. Oh my god. The pieces start falling into place.
“Are you Dawn?” I ask in a hesitant whisper. “The one I called?” This guy is Dawn? The one Glenda said could help me?
He cringes, presumably at the incredulity in my tone. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m Dawn. Once more with feeling.” He rakes a hand through his platinum hair as he stalks the alleyway like a tiger, his steps eating up the concrete. “I can’t keep doing this,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “I just can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” I ask, feeling confused and also annoyed at my confusion. “What are you talking about?”
He whirls around. “You think you can just waltz back into my life after what you did?” he demands, his voice cold and furious. “That I’ll keep taking you back—time and time again—no big deal?” His beautiful eyes flash fire. “Well, you’re wrong, Mariah. This is the last time I rescue you. Then I’m done. I’m truly done. I’m not going to let you screw with my head anymore.”
I’m screwing with his head? He’s the one who attacked me and kissed me for no reason whatsoever. Not to mention calling me some other girl’s name, even though I’ve clearly stated who I really am. And now he has the nerve to accuse me?
“Look,” I say, gritting my teeth. “My name is Skye Brown. I only called you because my personal trainer, Glenda, told me you could help me.” God, that sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. “But obviously she was wrong. So just forget it. I’m going back inside.”
I push past him and head toward Moongazer Palace, as fast as my boots can take me. I’ll figure my own way out of here. Or I’ll just wait until I wake up. Either way, I don’t need Mr. Psycho’s attitude. I wrap my fingers around the door handle, ready to pull it open.
“I’m sorry,” Dawn says suddenly, causing me to freeze in my tracks. He pauses, then adds, “I know you’re not yourself. I didn’t mean … it’s just hard, you know.” He sighs, then adds, “No, I guess you wouldn’t know, would you? You wouldn’t know anything at all.”
He sounds so sad that I find myself, against my better judgment, abandoning the door handle and turning back around. There I find him standing alone in the middle of the street, looking as if he’s lost his best friend.
“Talk to me,” I beseech him, seeing my opportunity. “What’s going on? Where am I? Why am I here?”
At first, he doesn’t speak and I’m afraid I’ll get nothing from him. But finally he opens his mouth to reply. “The Eclipsers,” he says, his voice tired and drained. “Glenda and her gang. They felt you were still worth saving.” He stubs his boot into the dirt. “I told them not to bother. That you’d made your choice. But they couldn’t accept that. They never could.”
“Then why did Glenda tell me to call you?”
Dawn shrugs. “She probably figured if I saw you again, I’d take pity on you. Forgive you for what you did. Hop back on the Eclipser bandwagon.” He looks up at me and I notice his beautiful, angry eyes are shining. Wet. “But I don’t forgive you,” he says in a choked voice. “To me, you’ll always be a traitor.”
His icy words send a shiver down my spine. He turns away quickly, but not before I can see his expression crumble. Pain radiates through him as he leans against the wall, stone cold, but ashen-faced. Whatever this Mariah girl did to him, it had to be really bad. I find myself fighting the ridiculous urge to walk over and give him a hug.
“I’m sorry,” I say in my gentlest voice, daring to approach. I place a comforting hand on his right shoulder. I don’t have a clue as to what I’m apologizing for, but I feel the need to say something to make him feel better.
He turns around slowly, looking down at me with his glorious eyes, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me again. Instead, he reaches up and strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. His touch is soft, tender. The wisp of a butterfly’s wing against my skin.
“Look ‘Ri, we can’t stay here,” he murmurs. “It’s too dangerous for a Dark Sider to be so close to Luna Park. We must go under.”
My pulse kicks up at his words. “Um, ‘under’? What do you mean?”
“I’ll bring you to my place. At least you’ll be safe there. You can rendezvous with the Eclipsers later.” He offers a hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”
I hesitate. I want to believe him. But …
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I hedge. “After all, I don’t even know you.”
“Right.” Dawn squeezes his eyes shut with frustration. “Of course you don’t.” He stares up at the sky. “Oh Glenda, you so owe me for this,” he mutters.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small silver blade that gleams under the streetlights.
“I’m afraid you leave me no choice,” he says in a terse, but even voice. “If you value your life—or what’s left of it, anyway—I must insist you come with me.”
SIX
I leap back, surprised, shocked, stunned. Isn’t Dawn supposed to be one of the good guys? The one Glenda told me I should seek out? So how come he’s got a knife pulled on me? On the Good Guy scale of one to ten, slicing and dicing the heroine hovers a bit below negative two in my book.
That’s assuming I am the heroine in this story. At the moment, I’m not a hundred percent on that.
Dawn seems to share my confusion. He’s white-knuckling the blade, hands trembling. Could a precisely placed kick knock it out of his grasp, or will that impulsive trick only leave me with a bloodied foot? My life may depend on the answer. And right now, my only friend is surprise.
Do it!
A strange confidence wells up inside me. Suddenly, for no logical reason at all, I know—beyond the shadow of a doubt—that I can take this guy in a fight. Steal the blade and turn the tables, draw the power into my own two hands.
And so, as if compelled by ancient training I never had, I hold up my hands in fake surrender and take a step forward, waiting for the moment I see him relaxing his grip, thinking I’ll give in sweetly and come along like a good little girl. At that instant, I launch into a roundhouse kick, my heel slamming into his palm. With a shocked grunt, he loses his grasp on the weapo
n, sending it skittering across the ground. I lunge forward, head-butting him with all my might. Our skulls collide with a sick clunking sound. He flails, stumbling backward. Seeing stars myself, I lose my balance, falling into him, and soon we’re both entangled on the floor.
Now I need that knife. I roll off my would-be kidnapper, scrambling to my feet, ready to make a mad dash for it. But Dawn reacts, grabbing my boot heel, and I trip, falling flat on my face, hands and chest, slamming onto hard, cold pavement. For a moment I can’t breathe—the wind stolen from my lungs.
Dawn takes advantage with lightning speed, dragging me by my heel, then my ankle. I kick backward, using my free foot to slam my boot into his face. He bellows in rage but can’t hold on. I wiggle forward along the ground like a worm, fingers outstretched, reaching, straining only millimeters away from the weapon. Finally I feel its cold metal connect with my hand. Got it! Wrapping my fingers around the knife hilt, I flip over, grasping it in both hands, waving it unsteadily in his direction. Advantage: me.
“Freeze!” I command. “Don’t move a muscle.”
He groans, but obeys. “Well, well,” he says, reaching up to touch his face. I’ve managed to do quite a number on him. Left eye swollen, a split lip, and his nose is practically gushing. “I guess at least you haven’t lost your ability to fight like an alley cat.” He makes a move to crawl toward me.
“Don’t come any closer,” I warn. “I’ll gut you.”
He sighs wearily and sits back down. “Look, we both know you’re not going to do that,” he says simply. “So how about we stop this charade and head down the rabbit hole before we end up having a patrol on our asses?”
I hesitate. My fingers caress the knife’s hilt, my pulse beating a mile a minute, knowing he’s called my bluff. There’s no way I can bring myself to drive a blade through an actual person, extinguish their spark of life with my own two hands. Dawn, somehow, seems to know this. And he’s using this knowledge to turn the tables once again, effortlessly taking back control.
I reluctantly lower the knife.
“Thought so,” he says with a knowing nod, rising to his feet and holding out a hand. I ignore it and scramble up by myself.
“I can always change my mind,” I remind him, shoving the knife into my boot. Just in case.
He snorts. “Yeah. Don’t I know it.”
We stare at each other for a moment, me angry, him still cocky, though with a trace of sadness fluttering beneath the surface. Neither one of us seems willing to look away first. To submit to the other. That is, until a siren’s mournful wail shatters the silence of the city block. Dawn’s arrogance fades, and concern takes its place.
“And there would be the Park Patrol,” he announces. “Underground. Now.” He beckons me to follow as he turns and hurries down the street. He gets a few yards, then pauses, turning back to me, his face beseeching.
“Seriously, ‘Ri. You have to trust me. You don’t want to be caught out here alone.”
I want to tell him to go to hell, but something in his voice gives me pause: serious concern, laced with fear. Could we really be in danger? I remember Glenda’s words. Trust Dawn. At the end of the day, it’s all I have to go on in this crazy world.
“Okay,” I agree, not knowing what else to do. I still have the knife, I remind myself. I can always escape later. “Lead the way.”
We make a left, walking briskly past Moongazer Palace, and then a right at a boarded-up warehouse. Dawn stops at a small manhole cover in the center of the street, silhouetted in sickly orange by one halfheartedly flickering streetlight above. He gets down on his knees and starts twisting the cover with both hands.
The siren wails again. This time louder. Closer.
Dawn looks up. “Give me a hand with this,” he orders. “We don’t have much time.”
I drop to my knees, still sore from our fight, and help him wrench the cover off. We toss it to one side, revealing a metal ladder leading down into the blackness. Just like in my dream. I shiver.
“Go ahead, I’ll be right behind you,” Dawn instructs.
I stare down into the hole, trying to work up my nerve. I’ve always been a bit claustrophobic, even when I’m not running around in some kind of weird postapocalyptic underground dream world. Climbing down into a black pit with no idea of what awaits me below? That’s a bit much to swallow.
The siren wails again. Piercing. Right around the corner now from the sound of it.
“They’re at Moongazer Palace,” Dawn says in a hoarse whisper. “They’ll be here any second. Please, Mariah. Just go down the rabbit hole.”
The panic in his voice compels me to obey. I suck in a breath, wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt, then stick my legs down the hole. Carefully I find each foothold, securing my step before lowering myself to the next rung. The blackness soon swallows me with only a dim circle of light from the opening above to guide my way. Down, down, down. How deep is this “rabbit hole” anyway? And what if there are multisized doors and cupcakes reading EAT ME at the bottom?
I glance up to see Dawn’s silhouette far above as he starts his own descent. He’s still way up high. If I wanted, I imagine I could jump off the ladder now and make a run for it. But where would I go? I’m completely at his mercy. Better to bide my time, figure out what’s going on first.
And who knows? If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll just wake up. Realize this is all just another one of my psychotic dreams. That’s still a possibility, right? But something inside me, some niggling know-it-all voice, tells me that this isn’t like the other times. Those dreams were ethereal, mystical, ungrounded in any kind of reality. This seems different. Solid. Like I’m actually here.
Dawn drags the cover over the manhole and the dim light above me fades until it is gone altogether. The metal clanks into place, leaving us smothered in blackness. I hold out my hand; it’s so dark I can’t even see it. Cave darkness. Panic bubbles to my throat, but I swallow it down and force myself to begin my breathing exercises as I keep descending. No time to freak out. I need to keep my wits about me now more than ever.
The ladder ends and my boots struggle to find purchase on a surprisingly slick metal surface. Thankfully, it’s a bit lighter down here, with a dull, crimson ribbon of light running alongside what appears to be an underground metal road.
I take advantage of the light to take stock of my surroundings. It appears I’m in some kind of large aqueduct, a smooth stone tube, like a sewer (and it certainly smells like one), but with a metal highway running its length. Every few feet, mammoth fans, cut into the stone, blast hot, stale air through the tunnel, whirring loudly, drowning out most other sounds.
I gasp, recognizing the scene. The tunnel from my dream. It has to be.
What if the dream was a premonition of some sort? What if there are uniformed men just around the corner, ready to chase me, to pin me down, to “send me to the moon”? Should I be ready to run?
My panicked thoughts are interrupted as Dawn jumps off the ladder, landing with a thud by my side. He pulls an industrial-strength flashlight from a utility belt and switches it on. I relax a bit. In my dream I was alone. Here, at the very least, I have my reluctant hero by my side. Can I trust him? I have no idea. But what choice do I have?
“Ready?” Dawn asks, turning to me. “My bike’s stashed in a side tunnel nearby. I don’t think they saw us, and I did lock the hole, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“I told you. To my house. I’ll contact Glenda and the Eclipsers and let them know you’re here.” He grunts. “Don’t worry, once they come get you, you won’t have to deal with me anymore.”
“Uh, okay,” I say, not liking his sarcasm. But then again, how can I blame the guy? I just beat the crap out of him. I’m probably lucky he didn’t decide to turn me into the patrol himself.
I follow Dawn down the corridor, his flashlight casting sharp silhouettes against the smooth cave walls. I resist the urge to grab his arm like a
girly girl frightened by her own shadow. Instead I square my shoulders and force myself to keep a brave face. Can’t let him know how freaked out I am; he already holds enough of an advantage, thank you very much.
The tunnel breaks ahead, forking into an unlit side passage. Dawn motions for me to wait and then disappears into the darkness, returning a moment later leading a small motorcycle. He straddles it and then instructs me to hop on the back, after handing me a helmet. I hesitate, weigh my options, then reluctantly pull the helmet over my head and climb on.
“No handholds,” I remark, looking from side to side on the bike.
“Sorry, princess,” Dawn says mildly, “you’re just going to have to hold on to me.”
Seeing no alternative, I tentatively guide my arms around him, clasping my hands together in front. His chest is solid, toned. Not an ounce of fat encasing his well-defined ribs. I can feel his heartbeat through his jacket, thudding too fast. Matching the beats of my own. He’s still nervous about me. Or at least this Mariah he thinks I am.
He starts the engine and the bike roars to life. It’s then that I realize this is not a regular motorcycle. Namely because regular motorcycles do not hover six inches off the ground.
Holy crap! I start to exclaim, but my words are drowned out as Dawn releases the brake and we begin to fly down the corridor. Yes, literally fly. The wind whips through my hair as we soar down the road.
The ride is fast but smooth; by hovering we avoid any potholes or rocks. Dawn steers the bike effortlessly, tipping to one side and then the other as he maneuvers down the sharp tunnel turns. I tighten my grip around him—we have to be going at least a hundred miles an hour—and I wonder what would happen if someone comes around the corner in the other direction. A high-speed flying collision? No thank you.
About ten minutes later Dawn slows the bike. I tilt my head to get a better glimpse as to where we are. We’ve come to a large, rusty gate that extends from the ground to the cave ceiling. Two identical spotlights cast shards of illumination against its closed metal mouth.