The Fell of Dark

by Caleb Roehrig

  Gunnar’s eyes glow a bright gold, the angles of his face sharper and more dramatic than before. His brows and cheekbones catch new light, and the tips of his partly extended fangs show between swollen lips. I’m staring, frightened and fascinated, and he turns away. “Sorry—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean … This happens sometimes, when I get … excited. Please, just, don’t be scared? I wouldn’t hurt you, I promise, I—”

  “You can look at me,” I say, when I finally rediscover my voice. After a moment, he does, his eyes like embers in the darkness of the car. His face is still altered, and I resist the urge to reach out and touch it, just because it’s unfamiliar. “I’m not scared.”

  “I don’t usually lose control like this,” he admits, a sheepish smile exploring the new limits of his facial structure. “Most people aren’t … Well, I try not to show mortals this face too often.”

  “I understand.” The last time I saw a vampire this far into his transformation was at Sugar Mama’s—right after he’d bitten open a woman’s neck. But somehow I’m really not scared; I even kind of like that Gunnar is this … excited. And somehow it’s still beautiful, his exaggerated features finally cast in a way that makes sense. “I think I kind of like it.”

  “You do? You mean … you would still kiss me? Like this?” Gunnar plants his hand down on the center console, and I note that his fingers have not yet started to turn into claws. That might be my red line.

  “Guess there’s only one way to find out.” I let him come to me this time, half-certain I’m making a fatal misjudgment—but he fits his mouth to mine and kisses me with renewed hunger. He’s aggressive and athletic, the growling in his throat quickly starting to sound more like a leonine purr, and my tongue slips harmlessly against the points of his fangs.

  I’ve never felt sexier in my entire life, and when he finally breaks away again, I swear I’m only two seconds from losing it. In my pants. Deliberately placing his hands on the steering wheel, Gunnar closes his eyes, quelling the brilliant golden light. His face is still changed, his eyeteeth longer and his brow bones even more arched. “Okay. Okay, I think now is a good time to stop.”

  “You’re … hungry?” I’m breathless and tingling all over, but I still slide one hand into my coat pocket, searching for that crucifix.

  Gunnar laughs a little. “I’ve got a lot of urges right now, and feeding is barely, like, number ten on the list. Don’t worry, I can resist them all, it’s just … not very fun.”

  “Oh. Oh.” My voice squeaks again. But I don’t jump out of the car right away. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking about things. If I could weaponize the disorienting power of my dick, I could probably bring whole countries to their knees.

  “Thank you,” Gunnar finally says, and when he opens his eyes, the light in them is gone. His fangs retract, and the shape of his face slowly returns to normal. “For going out with me tonight. For listening. For … you know, this.”

  “Thanks for being honest with me. And for not eating me, and stuff.” I mean it sincerely, but he laughs really loudly, and immediately I pretend like I was joking all along. “If you wanted to go out again sometime, that would be cool,” I say as casually as possible. He glances over, but before he can speak, I add, “No Great Love Story, I promise. Just … fun. And make-outs.”

  Gunnar opens his mouth, hesitates. Then, “Actually, there’s an underground party tomorrow in one of the abandoned buildings near the woods? Well, I guess it’s more like a rave.” His brows contort into an adorable questioning expression. “It would be … kind of cool if you came?”

  “A rave?” I try to imagine myself at a rave—only I have barely any idea what a rave looks like. The images that come to mind are neon body paint and glow sticks and people shoveling drugs into their mouths with those scoops from the bulk candy store. “Is this, like … When you say it’s underground, do you mean it’s a vampire thing?”

  “It’s hosted by vampires, but it’ll be a mixed crowd,” he answers. “You might be surprised, but there are lots of mortals who like to party with us. Most of them are weird, but some are actually pretty normal.”

  “I’ve heard of stuff like that before.” Just like vampires who choose to mainstream, there are humans out there who fetishize and even worship the undead. Most of them, of course, don’t come from towns with unusually frequent deaths by exsanguination. “I didn’t know there was anything like that in Fulton Heights, though.”

  “A lot of stuff happens—here and everywhere else—between vampires and humans that neither side likes to publicize too much.” Gunnar reaches over and brushes his fingers against my cheek, and I go all tingly again. “You’d be totally safe if you came. And I don’t just mean because I’d protect you. There’s a lot of rules and plenty of security.”

  “Can I think about it?” This is my polite way of saying, Not a chance in hell. Making out with Gunnar was one thing, and I totally don’t regret it, but walking into a vampire party? I’m dumb, but I’m not stupid.

  “Yeah, of course.” Gunnar’s thumb grazes my lip, and I kind of want to jump his bones again, but I say good night and get out of the car. There are seven vampires watching my house tonight, each presence as tangible as a mosquito bite on my skin, and I shiver as I race up my front steps. But it isn’t until I’ve unlocked the door and am waving goodbye, watching Gunnar pull away from the curb, that it hits me. Seven vampires … but none of them are him.

  I can’t sense Gunnar.

  16

  That night, I can’t sleep, trying to understand what it means that Gunnar doesn’t register on my radar—trying to figure out where I can turn for answers. I can’t ask Jude, because the Syndicate might expect some sort of cooperation in return, and I’m honestly not sure the Brotherhood is much better. Daphne I trust, but she’s promised to have her organization investigate a dozen different things for me, and so far they’ve come up with nothing.

  I don’t understand how the sensor works, and I can’t even be sure it’s 100 percent effective, but I’m afraid the actual explanation has something to do with the fact that both of the undead cults gathering in Fulton Heights are led by known magic-workers. If anyone understands how this entity works, and how to successfully jam the radar I’ve developed because of it, it’s someone who’s spent lifetimes studying the Corrupter.

  Pretending to be a cool-dude-necklace-wearing human might only be the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Gunnar’s deceptions.

  With Jude and Daphne out, the only other person I know who really understands supernatural stuff is Ximena Rosales; but I tried her once, and all she did was steal my hair for a “protection spell.” If she knows something, she’s already lied about it. No matter what her reasons were, I can’t trust her to suddenly tell the truth now … and if she’s capable of magic beyond regular witchcraft, I can’t even be sure she’s using it in my favor.

  My head is throbbing with questions by mid-afternoon the next day when I receive a text from an unfamiliar number: Hey, Auggie, it’s Hope. I know this sounds weird, but can I send you something?

  Immediately, I’m intrigued—and also anxious, because I’m starting to realize just how much I hate surprises. I haven’t seen Hope since the day I drew a flaming corpse and our art teacher died trying to murder me, and I can’t imagine what she wants to talk about. Nervously, I send her a sure, and her reply is prompt.

  It’s a photo of what looks like a medieval woodcut printed on parchment, labeled with words in a language I don’t recognize. The image itself depicts six slender figures with their arms raised, gathered around what looks like a man being struck by lightning. After a moment, I type:?????

  My video chat activates with an incoming call, and when I accept, Hope’s face fills the screen. “Hey. I, um … How are you?”

  “Confused? Why did you send me a picture of a guy getting electrocuted?” I ask. “I mean, not to be rude. It’s nice to see you!”

  Hope squirms a little, her mouth in a knot until she says,
“Before I explain, you need to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. I could get in deep shit, and … I mean, you can’t even tell Adriana.”

  My eyebrows lift slowly. “Okay…”

  “So remember when I told you that something about what the vampire who jumped you at Sugar Mama’s said sounded familiar?” she asks—and I do. I’ve been a little curious about it, but couldn’t figure out how to ask her questions without revealing more than I wanted to. Besides, I like Hope, but … what could she possibly know?

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “This is the reason. My uncle has a lot of books on the history of magic and witchcraft, and this picture is from one of the oldest. He would literally kill me if he knew I was showing it to someone outside of the family—especially someone who isn’t even a witch.”

  “I get it, total secrecy,” I assure her. “But what’s the point?”

  Hope takes a deep breath. “This image is titled ‘The Rising of the Dark Star.’”

  I freeze. “The … what?”

  “It’s from some ancient lore, basically a fairy tale about this legendary sorceress coven from, like, thousands of years ago.” Hope waves an apologetic gesture. “I don’t know if they were even real, but … that’s what the guy said, right? ‘The Dark Star rises’?”

  I feel myself nodding. “Yeah … um. I think so.”

  “The text under the picture is so damaged it’s hard to read, but it says something about an ‘arcane ritual’ and something called ‘the Corrupter.’” She pauses, watching me carefully through the phone. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “I don’t know.” I can barely feel my hands.

  She watches me a moment longer, and then looks away. “I asked my uncle about it, but he wouldn’t say much. Apparently, it’s some mostly forgotten tale about six witches who kicked ass and took names back in, like, the Bronze Age, or something. I don’t know.” She gives me a meek smile. “I’m basically talking nonsense, right?”

  “N-no, you’re fine,” I insist automatically. Clearing my throat, I try to sound casual as I ask, “What do you mean, an ‘arcane ritual’?”

  “I don’t know,” Hope repeats helplessly. “That part’s missing—which is weird, because magic-workers love to document a ritual.” Misreading my expression, she grimaces. “Ugh, I’m sorry. This is some billion-year-old witch myth, and he was a vampire … Who knows what he was talking about?”

  “It’s okay.” I force a laugh. “Never a dull moment in Fulton Heights! I bet you don’t regret moving here at all.” After an awkward pause, I say, “Um, I appreciate you sending it, anyway. And don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

  “Thanks, Auggie.” She smiles. “Have a nice day.”

  “You, too,” I say, and it takes me four tries to close the app.

  For a long while after we hang up, I can’t move, reexamining the woodcut over and over. The Rising of the Dark Star. The nature of the “arcane ritual” being depicted is too unclear to decipher; it looks like they’re zapping the unholy shit out of the poor bastard who was that century’s vessel, killing him before it was too late … But maybe what I’m really looking at is the Corrupter being directed into a vessel for the first time. Maybe this Bronze Age coven actually started the once-a-century nightmare I’m living today.

  Instinctively, my fingers jump to the spot where Ximena Rosales pulled out my hair—for a protection spell she was planning before she knew I needed protecting. If vampires and monster hunters have passed down knowledge of the Corrupter by word of mouth for generations, why not witches, too? And if Adriana’s grandmother knows something, then I can’t be sure she’s not one more enemy to add to my growing list.

  I sit for a while longer, coming up with bad ideas followed by worse ideas—realizing that if I really want answers, I need to look anywhere and everywhere I can, even if it’s reckless and stupid. I’m drowning, surrounded by nothing but bricks, and I have to grab onto something. If I do nothing, I’m dead, so I might as well die tilting at windmills.

  Getting off the bed at last, I head for my closet, trying to figure out what the hell you wear to a vampire rave.

  * * *

  I know I’m dressed wrong the second I answer the door, and find Gunnar on the porch in a tank top and jogging shorts, with stripes of UV-reactive paint on his face. Even though he’s standing right in front of me, I still can’t sense him … but the muscles of his chest and arms make bells ring in my stomach. With some effort, I successfully wrestle my libido under control and arch a brow. “Is this party in Florida?”

  “I don’t really feel the cold,” he explains with the same bright, easy smile that made me all swoony for him in the first place, and I try to detect artifice in it now. “But it actually gets pretty warm at these things. You might want to change.”

  He follows me upstairs, because I can’t think of a decent excuse to keep him waiting on the porch, and I watch him explore the territory where I spend most of my time. I’ve never had a boy in my room before. My parents are out at a fancy dinner to celebrate their upcoming trip to London, and I’m acutely aware of how empty the house is—of how sexy he is, even if I can’t completely trust him.

  I’m increasingly self-conscious as I go through my clothes, until Gunnar finally takes over, pulling out the tiniest pair of shorts I own. “These are perfect.”

  “Isn’t it, like, forty degrees out?” My face warms a little.

  “Trust me,” he says unironically. “If you wear pants tonight, you’ll be miserable.”

  Walking outside in the middle of March, however, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and tiny shorts, is plenty miserable itself. My teeth are chattering by the time we make it to the car, and I’ve only just started to thaw when we’re already parking again. Gunnar stops on a lonely stretch of curb on the “bad” side of town, where the empty, shuttered buildings that the city can’t afford to demolish have become the favored hideouts of the undead.

  Music pulses faintly in the air, and we follow the sound to a blocky edifice of whitewashed brick. Its weedy lot separated from the foliage of Colgate Woods by a frail chain-link fence, I recognize the former Trapans Glassworks factory, and send off a discreet text. As I slip my phone back into my pocket, I catch Gunnar’s watchful eye and give him an innocent smile. We’re playing a game, but I don’t want him to know that I know it.

  At the rear of the building, where thick shadows keep a multitude of secrets, a line to get inside stretches for at least twenty yards. Gunnar pushes past the crowd, all the way to the velvet rope, where an undead bouncer screens the would-be entrants, his frame packed with muscle he doesn’t need. Lacing his fingers through mine, Gunnar whispers something to the doorman—and, just like that, we’re waved past the crowd and into the party.

  Inside, down a flight of concrete steps, is pandemonium. The cavernous chamber is alive with a sea of dancers, strobe lights beating against storm clouds of artificial smoke, and the music is so loud the bass makes my lungs vibrate. There’s a DJ on a raised dais, and massive speakers tower in the gloom. When I look over at Gunnar, his teeth gleam just as brightly as the UV paint that luminesces on his cheeks.

  “This is it, Auggie,” he shouts, and I see the golden light smolder to life in his eyes. “I know it sounds dumb, I know this is just a bunch of drunk losers in a basement, but … it’s beautiful, right? It doesn’t matter who’s human and who’s undead—nobody’s scared here, nobody’s in danger. It’s just … joy.”

  I can barely make out any faces in this mob, but their body language testifies to what he’s saying. On Halloween, Kenton Reed threw a party at his gigantic house, and basically the entire school went—from the jocks and the horse girls all the way down to the freshman band kids—and his basement looked a lot like this: people feeling the music, dancing close and not caring who was beside them. Boyd had backed into me by accident, his perfect butt actually touching me, and when he realized it, he’d laughed.

  Our hands still twined together, Gunnar
pulls me down into the thick of the rave. What looked like smoke is really a perfumed vapor, billowing through the crowd, clinging to my skin. The din is too loud to hear over, but as soon as we’re on the dance floor, strangers’ hands brush my arms in a silent welcome; someone hands me a glow stick, someone else kisses my cheek, and the beat thumps like a shared heartbeat.

  I’m definitely out of my element, and I have no idea how I’m going to learn what I came here to learn, but the energy in the room is intoxicating. The factory was gutted long ago, and the space opens up, up, up, massive windows high on the wall letting the starlight in. I’ve never danced to this kind of music before, but it’s too dark to be self-conscious about my movements, and nobody seems to be judging me anyway. I sway and I jump … and I feel the joy.

  “You’re beautiful, Auggie! Do you know that?” Gunnar shouts at me, his eyes glowing in the darkness—and for the first time in maybe my whole life, I think, I feel beautiful. The beat thuds, laser lights finding exposed brick walls through fog and shadows, and the rhythm surrounding us threads its way into my blood. I embrace it, fall into it, becoming one more essential piece in the great machinery of the dance floor.

  At first Gunnar keeps his distance, but soon we’re pressed close, his hand at the small of my back, his lips grazing my ear, my cheek, my jaw. His eyes burn bright, but the only thing he seems hungry for is pleasure. He’s not alone, either; throughout the room, golden lights echo his own, beacons identifying the undead. But there are no screams or victims at this party; no matter how many new people I collide with, all I see are happy faces, humans and vampires sharing the moment.

  Time slides together, and I don’t even notice I’ve become separated from Gunnar until I realize I have no idea how long we’ve been apart. Everyone around me is unfamiliar but friendly, a stranger’s hand on my hip, another’s fingers running through my hair. It’s hedonistic and thrilling and scary, all my inhibitions drowned out by the buzz of being wanted. I’ve never been drunk, but this has to be what it feels like—this buoyant looseness, this blur. For the first time in weeks, I don’t care what happens next; I only care about right now, about the gentle hum beneath my skin getting stronger the longer I dance.