Sid shakes his head. “What if you get caught? No. We can’t take that chance. We should just leave it.” He frowns at the house, his mind ticking away, obviously not sure about his decision. Then his eyes widen. “Actually we could fix this right now.” He comes around to the driver’s side of the Camaro. “Do you have a dagger?”
I nod. It’s tucked into the waist of my jeans. I always have one with me. Iron or silver. Sid’s bought me several of them in different sizes. The one I have right now is the smallest: a five-inch iron blade.
“Get it ready,” he says. “I’ll tell Ms. Bentley that you have to take the cat out to the yard, near the trees, to do the spell, then I’ll wait with her in the house while you . . . dispose of it. You can say it ran off.”
He heads for the door before I can mention that I think the plan is lame.
“Just make sure it scratches you up a bit,” he whispers over his shoulder, “then we can threaten a countersuit if she starts talking about calling her lawyer because we lost her Fluffy.”
“Great,” I say as I follow. “I’ll be sure to let the thing chew on me before cutting off its head.” Sid knocks on the door, and I add, “You have a takeout menu stuck to your pants.”
He turns in a circle, looking for the Chester’s Chicken propaganda that’s trying to hitch a ride on his pinstripe suit. He plucks it off and tosses it aside, then rights himself just as the client opens the door. I stand back as he explains—lies—about our plan, saying we’ll cleanse the cat of the demon inside its furry body, and that it’ll be painless and quick. The client’s excitement is a glow around her as she waves us back in.
“Why don’t you make me some tea?” Sid asks her as I maneuver my way to the cat carrier. “We’ll let Aidan do what needs to be done.” He nods for me to continue as he leads the client down a pathway through the junk mountains and into the kitchen, out of sight.
I hate being this close to a demon. The creature’s energy is a damp chill against my skin. My new instinct screams to tear into the carrier and rip the thing to shreds, but I swallow the urgency and breathe. It’s only a small demon, maybe twenty pounds, but its strength is more jungle than it is house cat. At least it’s contained in something that I can carry.
Four weeks have passed since I killed my first demon. Sometimes I wonder if that night in the cave was actually real—did I seriously annihilate the wolflike monster that tore up my mother? The idea sends a wave of energy through me, my skin prickling with remembered adrenaline. I wish I could’ve done the same to the Heart-Keeper, but that thing is locked down in Sheol now, thanks to my mother’s final sacrifice.
As if the demon in the room can sense what I want to do to it, it slams its body against the side of its cage with a bang, sending a crack across the plastic surface.
It’s now or never. I grab the carrier handle and haul ass to the front door as the thing inside bucks and spits and hisses, its smell nearly unbearable now.
“Poor Fluffy,” Muumuu-Lady moans from the kitchen.
I make it outside and down the walkway a bit before a claw breaks through the crate’s side, snagging my forearm, leaving two long welts behind. My sue-worthy scratches.
Fire shoots up my arm from the strike, making me drop the carrier.
The box hops with the furious movement of the demon inside, and several more cracks form as the plastic bangs against the brick path in a frantic rhythm. The cracks become holes. The holes grow.
And the carrier bursts open like a hatched egg.
I pull my amulet over my head and toss it onto the walkway before I slide my dagger from the waist of my jeans; I want the thing to come at me, I can’t deny it. I have no fear—or if I do, it’s lost in the storm brewing inside me. My stomach swirls with a hundred sensations: anticipation, anxiety, readiness. Need. So much need. Because I must kill this thing. My brain screams with it. I knew a small taste of this four weeks ago in the cave, but this is so much stronger. The creature’s smell, its dark energy . . . It’s a warm meal calling out to me and I’m starving. It reminds me that I have power now. That I’m not as helpless as I always feel.
It also reminds me that I’m a murderer.
The first thing that emerges from the broken pieces of the carrier is a silver-furred paw, then overlong whiskers.
“The light of Elohim surrounds me,” I whisper as I move closer.
The surfacing ears fold back at my words.
“The love of Elohim enfolds me,” I say a little louder.
A hiss comes from the shadow of the cage and the reek of sulfur billows out.
“Wherever I am Elohim is.” I stand over the wreckage now, only a foot away. The force in me is nearly buckling my knees. “Get your furry ass out here, coward,” I say through clenched teeth.
As if my words alone have power, the creature is yanked from the remnants of the carrier with a loud screech of claw scraping over plastic. The demon squints at the sunlight: cat features too pointy, eyes too large, and the thin overlong tail too much like a rat’s.
My hand clutching the dagger sparks, catching fire. The flames fill my left palm and begin to burn a trail along the marked pattern on my wrist. Then the fire moves up, following the dark lines on my arm to settle in my chest where the design ends. Where the seal on my power is. And I have no choice now but to kill. The need propels me and I lunge. Fast. Faster than I ever moved before my rebirth, and before the thought can even settle I have a hold of its neck.
I yank it off the ground, its body contorting unnaturally, its back bending awkwardly as it latches its rear claws into my arm.
I barely feel the claws sink in, thanks to the tornado of this force inside me.
Words emerge from my lips, not in English, but in a demon tongue, “Shed this visage.” It needs to be in its true form to be killed. It can’t be hidden in glamour; the lie protects it. Eric’s journal goes on and on for two dozen pages about these rules that I never knew. Never knew because it was always impossible to actually kill a demon. Or at least it was until I came along.
It screeches again in protest, “You are not my god, you cannot command me.” Its throat vibrates against my clutching fingers, but its words mean nothing in the face of my power. Its fur melts away like heavy smoke, its black eyes grow even larger, teeth elongate. Its mouth turns almost humanlike. The thorns on its spine sink back into its thin pink flesh, and the torso grows, ribs ballooning out as if filling with air. As it transforms, the beast screams, “You are not my lord. You are King of Never, Prince of Mistake, and Liege of Time’s Folly.” Rage twists its already twisted features. “You shall bring Death among us, you shall bring her forth.” And then its screech morphs into a cackle, grating at the inside of my skull. It digs its claws deeper and strains to reach me with its teeth, even as my fist tightens around its neck. “Death follows after you. She is your downfall—”
I shove the blade up into its ribcage, just under the sternum, stopping the torrent of lies.
The demon goes silent. Its expression of rage freezes and then shifts into shock. Its large, oily eyes fill with the reflection of the strange flames dancing over my marked arm. And then the fire pushes along the dagger handle and enters the beast.
Gold sparks surge from its mouth and eyes as its black blood spills out and fills my hand, coating my skin in its chill. And what once was flesh becomes coal, then dust, falling to the grass. Ash from a burnt-out shell.
My power stills and I stare down at my bleeding arm, at the ashes on my shoe, at the demon blood now turned to clay on my hand from the heat. I want to feel some form of remorse, but all I feel is elation. Satisfaction. And even though it’s a demon I just killed, this death on my hands mingles with Lester’s death, the memory of the demon’s wide eyes becoming a soft brown as I plunged the blade into his very human neck, the black demon blood becoming red and sticky on my fingers, the smell of darkness becoming the smell of loss, so much loss. I shouldn’t feel exhilaration, I shouldn’t feel bliss. It’s wrong. All wrong.
My knees buckle and I collapse onto the lawn. I heave air into my lungs, gasping, trying to gather my wits. And then I throw up on the grass. I stay like that for several minutes, on all fours, before I finally sit back and realize that steam is rising from my skin. I glance at the front door of the house, wondering how the demon’s screams weren’t loud enough to bring out Ms. Bentley, let alone the entire neighborhood.
I focus on my punctured arm again. It’s coated in sticky smears of blood, but the bleeding appears to have stopped. And the wounds . . . there aren’t any. All that remains are six small mounds of scar tissue, shaped like twisted stars.
The wounds have healed. Already.
My new body is obviously more . . . resilient. Wow. I knew it was stronger, and oddly in tune with nature—like the whole breathing underwater thing—and faster when it needs to be. I can even take a jog now without gasping like an eighty-year-old chain-smoker.
After considering my options, I stand on shaky legs, grab my amulet off the brick path, and make my way to the end of the driveway and down the quiet street. I pull my cell from my pocket and tap Sid’s name to call him.
“Yes, this is LA Paranormal Investigative Agency,” he answers in a formal tone. “No problem is too weird.”
“Really, Sid, you still haven’t programmed my number into your phone?”
“Oh, hello,” he says, sounding chipper. He muffles the speaker, but I can hear him say to Ms. Bentley, “I need to take this. Please excuse me for just one second.” After a few beats more he says, “Okay, I’m outside. What happened? Where are you?”
“I’m not sure the sight of me right now would be good for the lady. Just tell her that Fluffy got away and I’m chasing after it, or something. Then pick me up at the corner.”
“Is it gone?”
I stare down at the demon’s blood crusted on my dagger hand. “It’s dead.”
“Excellent!”
And then the line clicks. The bastard hung up on me.
THREE
Aidan
Once I get in the car—trading places so I can drive for him—Sid explains that the lady was “in a huff” about her innocent kitty running away. Not a huge shock. As long as she buys the story and doesn’t sue us, I don’t really care.
“You did well,” Sid says, staring out the window as we drive out of the neighborhood and pass through the San Fernando Valley, heading back into the city. “And you say it just burned up?”
I take in a deep breath, wishing I didn’t have to explain it all. It’s confusing enough living through it; I’d rather not rehash the strange emotions. But he’s right: we need to figure out how my new power works. Sooner rather than later.
“Yeah, and it was like . . .” I pause, unsure about saying too much.
“Like what?” His voice turns a bit more somber. Maybe he can tell it’s all getting to me.
“It was like I had to kill it. Like I had no choice.”
“I see. And this bothers you, not having control?”
I shake my head, surprised my answer is no. It should bother me, but it doesn’t. “What scares me is how much I wanted to kill it.”
He turns to look at me. “But it was a demon.”
“I know.” I sigh. “It’s lame.”
“No, Aidan.” His voice turns gentle. “It’s amazing. It means, even after everything, your heart is still pure.”
Well, that’s unlikely. I haven’t totally explained to Sid everything that happened in the house that afternoon before my Awakening—haven’t told him that it was me who killed . . . Lester. I just can’t seem to say it out loud. Even though Sid can’t see my soul, I don’t want him to know that those cracks around my eye are there—the stain on the soul of every murderer. But he looks at me like he’s aware anyway. Maybe his abilities to see aren’t as faded as he likes us all to think.
We make it back to the house after an hour of freeway traffic on the 101.
As we pull into the driveway, my phone pings three times in my pocket. I wait until Sid’s out of the car and walking toward his shed before I get it out. A new wave of guilt hits me.
Rebecca.
Coffee today? <3 Usual spot.
OMG, Samantha got tickets to see Hozier next week. You should come! :)
I know you can’t, but I thought I’d ask. :( Still, u have to meet me for coffee. I have a surprise for you!
My heart beats a little harder looking at the three white bubbles on the screen.
“Damn.” I’m supposed to meet her this afternoon in Santa Monica, but I’ve been going back and forth with myself, knowing I need to cancel. And now I’ll just look like an ass, ditching her this late.
But what else is new.
She and I have hung out twice since she came back from Ireland. We met at the Coffee Bean in Santa Monica and talked about dumb things—about nothing, really. We took a walk along the boardwalk and watched the oddballs on Venice Beach, trying to guess what astrology signs people were. All simple and safe. There was no mention of demons or of the scar running along her arm. No mention of my sister. It was exactly what I needed. I didn’t have to worry about her asking me how things were because she didn’t want to talk about what had happened, either.
I wrote her emails when she was in Ireland, told her that I can see things, that she was being attacked by demons . . . so she knows more than she used to, but she still doesn’t know everything. She doesn’t know that I see her virgin soul, that I’m supernaturally bonded to Kara, or that she herself may be bonded to me as well—that she’s one of these Lights that Sid’s always talking about. Maybe the most vital one. Maybe she senses the link, though, like I do. Maybe she’s aware of more than she’s saying. There’s this look in her eye when I leave her that seems almost panicked.
With everything that’s been going on, and because I don’t know how . . . I haven’t told Kara that I’ve hung out with Rebecca.
I’m a bastard.
Not telling Kara feels like lying. And I don’t lie. Today would be the third time I’ve seen Rebecca, the start of a regular thing, and I can’t let that happen. If Kara finds out, she’ll think I want something more from Rebecca.
And I don’t. It’s not about that at all. Kara is who I want—that’s been very clear to me since before my Awakening. And it only became more clear afterward. It doesn’t matter that things are PG between the two of us now, the surge of hungry energy tempered into something less consuming.
Last night Kara said that I was the first person she ever felt truly safe with. All I want is for that to be true, for her to be able to trust me, to be safe with me. But standing here, staring at the messages from Rebecca, at the crusted demon blood on my hands, a chill works through me. The horrible reality seems suddenly clear: this person I am now, the weight of this power I’ve been given, it’s only going to bring pain in the end.
FOUR
Aidan
Jax and Holly are in the kitchen when I walk in the back door.
A piece of carrot flies at me from Jax’s direction. “Hey, ass face,” he says. He has a large knife in his hand—hopefully he’s just chopping vegetables. His close-cut dark-brown hair is splotched on the sides with green dye from Holly trying to copy some style she found on Pinterest. Apparently it was supposed to look like leopard print. Instead it looks like an army of green Sharpies attacked his head.
“OMG,” Holly says. “So glad you’re home.” She slides a casserole into the oven and closes the door. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook, and there are three messages from panicked clients. It’s become Ghost World War III out there today, and your girlfriend’s no help. The queen was off galavanting yesterday morning when I needed help with that hospital video of hers, and now she’s been upstairs hibernating all day today, like she’s on vaycay or something. It’s nearly four!” Holly’s got her hair up in its usual ribbon-woven way. She added a few pink and green strands to the brown during the Great Hair Experiment. She’s wearing neon-colored exercise clot
hes—which means she’s probably going to be doing yoga up in her room later. Which is good because it keeps her calm. Ever since the stuff with Ava she’s been more short fused than usual. We’ve all been on edge.
“And for some reason I’m helping cook dinner,” Jax says with a long-suffering sigh, like he’s been given the job of scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush. “I’m a sucker for this señorita’s orders.” He winks at Holly and brings his knife down on a carrot with a whack.
“You look very put out,” I say.
Holly laughs drily and comes at him, pointing a piece of the celery in his face. “You keep your eyes on those carrots or I’ll be making Jax-salad instead.”
I raise my brow. “Better watch it, man. She’ll spit in your eggs in the morning.”
“If she wants her spit in my mouth, she should just let me kiss her already.”
Holly whacks Jax over the head with her celery stick. “I’m suing for sexual harassment.” Then she turns to me and says, “This is a hostile work environment.” And she walks from the kitchen, flipping off Jax over her shoulder and yelling several inappropriate words in Spanish.
Jax chops another carrot, smiling. “She loves me.”
I leave him to his work and head for the stairs. Finger is sitting on the couch, playing something on his Xbox with a lot of loud gunfire and screaming. I nod as I pass the archway, but he doesn’t look up. He smiles, though, sensing me there. A wave of calm spills out of the room like a greeting, and I pause for a moment, breathing it in.
“Hey,” Connor comes from the office. His blond hair is a mess and he looks like he’s been sitting at a desk all day. He’s still in the sweatpants and T-shirt he was wearing when he woke up and disappeared into the office before I left with Sid this morning. “Sid texted me with the update. I need your summary of the job.” He taps a pen on a pad of paper he’s holding. “I gotta get this paperwork done for the secondary release. In case she realizes somehow that you killed her damn cat.”
Darkness Fair (The Dark Cycle Book 2) Page 2