Rising Darkness

by Thea Harrison

  Edging down the path, still sick with tension, she darted her gaze everywhere in an effort to keep from being surprised by any of the Deceiver’s creatures. The kestrel had disappeared, but Nicholas kept pace with her. When she glanced at him, the ghost shook his head, but he no longer tried to stop her.

  She fought to keep in contact with Michael’s energy. Her success was patchy at best, but at least it was enough to confirm that he moved away from the clearing.

  The black diamond man wanted her badly enough to gamble on letting Michael go, and that frightened her more than anything. She flashed back to her last life, and the memory of him sprinkling some kind of powder into the crevices of her wound. Dread flooded her body again.

  She whispered, “Okay God, if you’re bored and you have a few minutes, now would be a good time to lend us a hand. At least until Michael has a chance to get away.”

  She hoped Michael would forgive her. She had done her best to rescue him. Once the Deceiver got hold of her, Michael would have to figure out the next move and rescue her. She knew this was a trap. She knew that the Deceiver wouldn’t let Michael go if he could help it. If they lost this crazy gamble, she was very sorry, but selfishly she hoped she would get to die first.

  Up ahead, the cabin appeared through a break in the trees. When she reached the edge of the foliage, she paused to peek into the clearing. Her gaze skittered around, taking in details.

  Several bodies littered the ground. Several more guards were alert and positioned at various places through the open area. They all had that queer, smudged quality in their auras. A black limousine parked at a slant across the gravel drive, blocking the way.

  A handsome young man leaned back against the limousine, one foot crossed over the other. He was dark-haired with a clever, narrow face and dressed in a tasteful navy blue business suit. He held a handgun in a relaxed grip at his side, the muzzle pointing to the ground.

  For a startled moment she felt a happy, relieved incredulity.

  Justin hadn’t died in the fire. He was alive.

  Then she saw it. The aura surrounding Justin’s body was so black that it shimmered, diamondlike, created from the pressure of an existence that had spanned the ages.

  Her world crashed around her, and she clutched at a tree trunk to keep from falling. Horror sank razor-edged teeth into her.

  No. No. No.

  Oh God. Not Justin.

  Justin was truly dead.

  She didn’t know she had any more tears left until they poured in burning streaks down her face.

  Dark spirits clung to trees, bushes and to some of the men. They rustled and whispered, the oily sound like a toxic sludge pouring along the edges of her mind.

  Two men crept toward her through the woods.

  She held the gun to her temple and took a step into the clearing. By then she had gone so hoarse she didn’t recognize her own voice. She said, “Two of your assholes are trying to come at me from behind. Call them off. Order the men with Michael to come back. Do it now.”

  Not-Justin turned toward her. He gave her a delighted smile, and he looked so like Justin’s roguish, unrepentant charm she gagged.

  He said in Justin’s pleasant, familiar voice, “There’s our princess. Hold on a moment.”

  She waited. Her stalkers withdrew. Her mind jumped from the men in the woods to the two transporting Michael. They dropped him and began jogging back.

  She reached for Michael telepathically. This was the best I can do. I’m so sorry.

  She thought she caught a thread of whisper in reply just before an invisible wall slammed down between them, blocking out all communication.

  “Now, cookie,” said not-Justin. “I’m a rather jealous sort. Right now I want all of your attention on me. I’ve kept my part of the bargain. It’s time for you to keep yours.”

  She hesitated, remembering Michael’s promise to kill her before he let the Deceiver take her. Her hand clenched on the gun’s grip.

  Not-Justin cocked his head. “You know,” he said. “Much as I love Mel Brooks’s sense of humor and his satire on racism, this is not nearly as amusing as that ‘shoot-the-nigger’ scene in Blazing Saddles, when the black man holds himself hostage. Put the gun down or my men go back to Michael. I’ll have them cut off his hands and feet. If he doesn’t bleed to death while I deal with you I can finish him later. I do promise you, cookie, if it comes to that I will be delighted to take my time with him.”

  The gun dropped from her nerveless fingers. It hit the ground.

  “Excellent,” he said, smiling. He pushed from the limousine and strolled through the bodies toward her. “I guess I’ve made it rather obvious how much I want you.”

  “Well, yes. . . .”

  He lifted his gun and shot her.

  She felt it punch her left shoulder. Her body arced backward as the clearing whirled. Then the ground came up and slammed into her. She thought she heard someone roaring.

  Distantly, she got the impression of several men running out of the clearing. The dark spirits lifted from the trees and flapped away.

  Two wingtip shoes came sideways into her vision. The Deceiver said, “As you might have gathered from your last life, I might want you alive, but I’m not averse to a little judicious maiming.”

  Her mouth opened. She tried to take a breath. One of her hands scrabbled at the grass. Then she spiraled inward in an agonized epiphany.

  Red was important to her.

  Red filled her mind, a warm, glowing vibrancy like live coals except for one dark torn place. Her awareness flew in that direction, past the pumping heart and the working bellows of her lungs, to the jagged hole that ripped through her body.

  The bullet had entered just below her collarbone. It had flattened as it moved through muscle and tissue, creating more damage where it exited than where it had entered. As she followed the damage to the back of her shoulder, she sent commands to her body that would stop the worst of the bleeding.

  And just like Michael’s body had when she had commanded it, her body obeyed.

  The abused flesh began to knit back together at the microscopic level.

  She felt herself lifted and turned. The Deceiver probed curiously at her wound. As she tried to push the hard fingers away, she flashed back to that ancient horror when he had reached into her body and handled organs that were never meant to endure such exposure.

  “The bleeding has already starting to slow.” He sounded thrilled. “You are remembering. How delicious.”

  Inside, the door to her secret, golden treasure chamber opened, and precious knowledge scrolled out.

  She staved off the lethargy of shock and kept her temperature controlled. White blood cells started to locate and destroy foreign bacteria.

  Of course. How could she have forgotten?

  She had always known she was a healer. This was how she healed.

  The Deceiver picked her up and carried her toward the limousine. “You know, in that life when I found you, your family had sheltered you so much you never had a clue how famous you had become,” he said, his tone conversational. “I wanted you from the first moment I’d heard of you. I was sure that you were one of us.”

  She only gave him part of her attention. Most of her awareness focused on her internal reality.

  This was how she knew how close Michael had come to cardiac arrest, yesterday in the bathroom.

  This was why she had poured so much energy into him, how she had calmed his heart. He had sunk so deeply into the memories of his own death he had almost killed himself again.

  His heart. The blood, the arteries, and the rhythmic pumping of his heart, all normally so strong.

  “You should have heard the names they called you in the city.” The Deceiver jerked his head at one of his soldiers, who sprang forward to open th
e back door. “Blessed of Allah, Daughter of Heaven. You were a legend before you were twenty. They said you had a face like an angel and a touch like Jesus. It looks like you still do, Mary, Mary.”

  Quite contrary.

  Before the intention had formed properly in her mind, she slapped a hand flat on his breastbone. She sent her awareness through that touch, thrusting into him like a scalpel.

  And if she had the nerve to wield a scalpel, she could shoot this gun.

  Justin’s heart was wonderfully healthy, thirty years old and strong as an ox. He should have lived to be a wisecracking, mischievous old man.

  She tangled her awareness in veins and arteries. She gripped the rhythmic pumping muscle with her mind like a fist then she—

  Yanked.

  Shock bolted across his face. His arms loosened. She fell hard and awkwardly. She cried out as the impact shot burning pain through her left shoulder and lung. Pushing against the ground, she managed to turn onto her back. She looked up.

  He hunched over, clutching at his chest. The normal healthy tan of Justin’s complexion turned purplish. His features contorted with astonishment, pain and rage.

  DAMN YOU! he roared in her head like a cyclone. GODDAMN YOU!

  Wheezing, he fell to one knee. His eyes turned toward her, and they were black diamond eyes, as vast as twin black holes, and they were filled with her destruction. He reached an unsteady hand toward her.

  Oh God. She couldn’t let him touch her.

  She rolled away and kept rolling as he lunged after her. How long before his hemorrhaging heart brought him to immobility, unconsciousness? Would it be soon enough?

  He sprawled full length, his grasping fingers scant inches from her ankle. She glanced back at him. He fought to get his knees underneath him again.

  Gunfire exploded nearby. She realized she’d been hearing gunfire in the background for a few minutes now.

  The Deceiver grabbed for her ankle again. His fingers brushed the cuff of her jeans and hooked underneath the hem.

  “WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIE!” she screamed at him.

  She kicked him in the face. His head snapped back, and blood sprayed from his nose. Jackknifing away, she got to her hands and knees. The weight made her injured shoulder pulse with agony. She curled her left arm around her torso and scuttled away like a wounded crab.

  After five feet, she sent a terrified glance over her shoulder.

  He had to be close to death. He had to be.

  He had abandoned his pursuit of her. He lay curled on his side, his psychic presence as malignant and as powerful as ever. The soldier that had opened the limousine door for him walked toward him. The man’s aura was smudged and dark, his expression blank.

  The soldier bent over the dying man with the stiff disjointedness of a marionette puppet. Not-Justin grabbed the soldier’s hand. The soldier convulsed then collapsed on top of him.

  She didn’t dare wait to see any more. Instead she pushed to her feet and lurched down the gravel driveway in a stumbling run, supporting her injured arm with the other.

  Ahead of her, Michael lunged around the bend in the gravel drive. He was limping badly, sweating profusely and bleeding from several wounds. In one hand, he held an automatic weapon. In the other, he gripped a foot-long knife that dripped ruby liquid. The savage expression on his hard face made her sob.

  She tripped and almost went down. He limped up to her, slung the gun onto his shoulder and sheathed the knife. Then, with as much care as if she were made of spun glass, he put his arms around her. She dropped her forehead to his collarbone. Heat poured off of him in waves.

  “Thank you, God,” she whispered.

  “Where is he?” His voice was gravel. His chest heaved.

  “Back there.” She pointed with her good hand toward the clearing as she leaned against him, hungrily soaking in the sensation of his strong body next to hers.

  He held her away from him. “Christ, you’re covered with blood.” His voice shook. “How bad is it?”

  She shook her head and forced herself to take a deep breath. “It hurts, but I’ve slowed the bleeding. Michael, somehow he was in my ex-husband’s body. I induced a cardiac arrest. He went down, but it doesn’t feel like he’s gone. One of his soldiers collapsed when he touched him.”

  “All right.” Michael turned an executioner’s expression toward the clearing. He asked, “Can you keep running?”

  Words exploded out of her with violent force. “I’m not leaving you again!”

  Sword gray eyes met hers in brief, perfect understanding. He let go of her, took his gun in one hand and started down the drive. “Come on then.”

  A car revved to life near the cabin. Michael spun, grabbed her good arm and dragged her into the tangled brush. Her aching body whimpered at the headlong pace. One of his hard hands clamped on to the back of her neck and pushed her to the ground.

  “Stay down,” he hissed.

  She ducked her head and stayed down.

  Gleaming black metal flashed between gaps in the foliage as the limousine roared past them. Michael stood and sprayed it with gunfire, but the car was armored. It disappeared. The Deceiver’s raging presence faded.

  Silence descended. No birds called. No wind rustled the trees. The mass of dark spirits had scattered. The scene seemed as peaceful as it had been before the intruders had arrived.

  She sensed Michael scanning the area before he shouldered his gun again and knelt beside her. That was when her body exerted control, and she started to shake so hard her teeth clattered.

  He eased an arm under her shoulders and lifted her to a sitting position. Then he wrapped his arms around her so tightly she thought he might break one of her ribs.

  “Easy,” she gasped as her gunshot wound gave a warning throb, and his hold loosened. She could feel tremors shuddering through his long hard body. He pressed his hot face into her neck.

  She managed to get her good arm around his waist.

  “Shoulder wound?” he asked. His hands passed compulsively down her back.

  She nodded. “I’m okay,” she gritted. “If I get enough quiet time, I think I can heal it. You?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  Pulling back, she glanced down his body, noting the tears in his clothing that indicated injuries underneath. No matter what he said, those wounds needed attention. They needed to get back to the cabin. She needed her first aid kit.

  She looked up and their eyes met. He said between his teeth, “What the hell were you doing?”

  She struggled to speak coherently. “I did what I had to. I thought—I felt him start to tear you apart somehow. I didn’t know there could be anything so horrifying. And there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to keep from feeling that again.”

  He rocked her. His voice vibrated in her ear. “I’m so pissed at you I can’t see straight. And grateful too. We’re both alive and that’s what counts. Come on. We don’t have time to dissect what happened.”

  He raised her to her feet and kept a supporting arm around her. She put her good arm around his waist as they limped back to the cabin. “I was so sure I had him,” she said. “He was dying, but then he drove away. Can he heal himself?”

  “We all can heal ourselves to a certain degree,” Michael said. “But not to the level of your abilities. In any case I doubt he healed himself. He takes life, he doesn’t repair it.”

  If Michael believed Astra could have healed Mary’s old psychic wound, apparently, Astra had more aptitude for healing than most of the group. “I saw Astra fighting with you,” she said. “Then she disappeared. She wasn’t injured too, was she?”

  “No, but she is weakened.” His mouth tightened. “She used all her strength in the fight. We can’t expect any more help from her for a while.”

  It was illogical t
o take that news as a blow, since any anything Astra could offer was so limited by distance anyway, but still her shoulders sagged. She felt that they were more cut off than ever, and very alone.

  They reached the edge of the clearing. Michael glanced at the bodies on the ground. He said, “Go straight into the cabin. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She ignored the order, refusing to turn away from the carnage. Instead, she stared at the body of the handsome man that lay curled on the ground. “That’s my ex-husband,” she whispered. “Did you see him earlier? That’s Justin’s body.”

  She walked over to Justin, and he followed. Remembering the black diamond aura that had surrounded him, she cautiously paused to study the edges of his curled figure. Just as she had suspected, the aura was gone.

  Awkwardly, she went down on her knees beside Justin and touched the fingers of her right hand to the carotid artery, just below his jaw. There was no pulse. Gently she stroked his hair back from his forehead while tears swam in her eyes.

  I loved you, she thought. Not the way either of us hoped we would when we got married, but I did love you. If I could take that day back again, I would. And I would do something else, something wiser and better. I would have been patient with you, and I would have gone to see Tony. Or I would have stayed home to send you away. Justin, I am so sorry.

  Michael stood beside her and waited until she looked up, even though he favored one leg. His expression somber, he said quietly, “He’s dead.”

  He didn’t phrase it as a question, but still, she nodded. Passing her hand one last time over Justin’s hair, she struggled to her feet.

  Michael put a hand underneath her elbow to help her. He said, “We both felt the Deceiver’s presence leave with the limo. He’s migrating from body to body without dying and being reborn.”

  Killing people and taking over their bodies. Michael’s harsh voice sounded matter-of-fact, yet her mind whirled. “That soldier was one of his drones. Do you think he migrated over to that body?”

  “Yes. He kills people’s spirits, and either controls them or he takes over their bodies. That way he always remains at full strength as an adult, and he never forgets who he is or where he came from.”