Hearts of Darkness

by Kira Brady

  She looked away, face hot. She didn’t have to see his face to know he was laughing at her. It was too late for modesty after she’d had her hands all over his naked skin. Her hand rose nervously to the medallion around her neck. It had broken in two. “Hart, I’m so sorry!” She held the pieces up to him. “It saved me.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He waved off her concern, but his fingers tightened around the twin pieces when she handed them back. “Just some old thing of my mom’s.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, knowing it was inadequate.

  He shrugged. “But I want my Deadglass back.”

  She pulled the spyglass out of her pocket and handed it over. “What’s it for?”

  “Lets you see the dead. Didn’t I tell you to use it?”

  “I did. I didn’t see anything.”

  “No river of light? No looming shadows?”

  “But what does that tell me?”

  “It’s the Aether. Takes some practice to read the currents, I guess.” He glanced at the Deadglass and then down to his naked body. He had nowhere to put it. “On second thought, hold it for me a bit longer, will ya?” He offered her his good hand. His left forearm showed an angry red tear where the bullet had shot clean through the muscle. Otherwise, he seemed extremely healthy.

  Her body was another story. Her foot hung at a crooked angle. Deep scratches ran up her exposed leg.

  “I don’t know if I can stand,” she admitted. “My ankle.”

  He growled low in his throat and swept her up in his arms.

  “Don’t! You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “Save it, babe.” He started down the aisle, but something about the engine caught her eye.

  “Stop. Look at the blood.” She pointed to the engine, where splattered blood ran over the burnished metal. It didn’t drip toward the ground, as it should. The droplets separated and spread, against gravity, coating the sides and lingering in grooves carved into the thick metal. Scripting across the engine like a ghostly fountain pen, a message emerged: K-9881. The last number was half formed, as if the writer had been interrupted.

  “Blood will out,” she murmured.

  “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “It looks familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “Think harder.” Hart set her on the ground. “Memorize it.” He strode to Cortez’s body and tore the uniform off. Using it as a rag, he scrubbed the blood off the engine. The writing disappeared as if it had never been.

  He swung her back into his arms, and she settled against his naked chest. Again. Her brain worried that this position was becoming all too familiar. Her body purred, happy to rub against him like a cat in the sun. She glanced back at the corpse. “What about Cortez?”

  “He knew the risks.”

  “The police will find our fingerprints.”

  “No, they won’t. Norgard owns enough of them. They’ll find a rabid dog attack, nothing more. We’ve a real problem with rabid animals in this city.”

  Party to manslaughter, obstruction of justice, police bribery. Kayla was on a roll. She hardly recognized herself. The straitlaced nurse had been left far behind. Maybe she’d fallen out of the plane on the ride here.

  Hart carried her to his car, set her down, and opened the trunk where he’d stashed his clothes. Now that she wasn’t pressed against his naked chest, she had a great view of the rest of him. She caught his grin and forced herself to stop staring. “Who knew you were such an exhibitionist?”

  “What’s to be embarrassed about? This is the way the Lady made me. A hundred percent natural.”

  “Lovely,” she said, tongue in cheek.

  “Thank you.” He winked at her.

  Her face burned scarlet. “How do your clothes stay together when you Change?”

  “I took them off before I Changed, to search for clues. The beast has a better nose. Didn’t want to miss anything.” He dressed more slowly than strictly necessary, covering all that beautiful skin inch by inch. She felt a strange sense of disappointment.

  After dressing and loading his weapons, Hart handed her a vial of viscous black liquid. Faint specks of gold floated in it, like Goldschläger. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?” It smelled like cinnamon and . . . iron? She took a sip and choked. Fire raced up her tongue and down the back of her throat. Immediate. All-consuming. She cried out.

  Hart caught the vial before she dropped it. “Careful. It’s all I have.”

  The fire burned brightest in her injured ankle. She could almost feel the tendons and bones melting and being reforged in the flame.

  “Breathe,” he ordered. “It helps.”

  After a few agonizing minutes, the fire died. She stretched experimentally. Her ankle moved as if it had never been broken. She gently searched for cuts and bruises, but they had disappeared.

  Hart took a swig of the black vial. He scrunched his nose, but stoically let the fire heal him. The bullet wound knit together before her eyes. The muscle stretched and closed; skin regrew in seconds. She blinked, and there was nothing left to show that he had ever been injured. It was a miracle drug. Scientifically impossible, but what she wouldn’t give for a bottle of that in the emergency room. Magic. “What is it?”

  “Dragon’s blood.” He corked the vial and stowed it. “Highly valued for its healing qualities. In the Middle Ages dragons were almost hunted to extinction for it. One reason they went into hiding from the humans.”

  “Why didn’t you use it yesterday when the Kivati injured you?”

  “Wouldn’t waste it on a little scratch like that. This shit’s hard to come by.”

  “How did you get—”

  He silenced her with his lips. His kiss was hard and hot, stealing the thoughts right out of her head. Her legs melted, and he swept them out from under her. She clung to him. His mouth tasted of cinnamon and passion, blatant sin and carnal delights. His arousal pressed insistently against her belly, and she wanted to climb higher to settle it where it belonged.

  He pulled back an inch and smiled, a real, broad grin full of masculine satisfaction. It lit up his face.

  Her breath caught. “So why did—”

  He kissed her again.

  Hart forced himself to set Kayla down and take a step back. Lady be, he wanted her. He’d never wanted anything so badly. Wanted to nuzzle into that soft skin where her neck met her shoulder. Wanted to bend her over the hood of the car, push down her pants, and bury himself inside her. Over and over, until the world melted away.

  Even the beast wanted her, but its hunger was sharper and feral. It wanted to dominate, to dig its teeth into her shoulder and mark her as his. It wanted to hold her down and knock her up. It wanted to taste her blood on his tongue.

  If that wasn’t enough to scare him shitless, nothing was. Sure, she might give in to his advances, but it was only momentary insanity. After all she’d been through, the poor girl was twisted around so bad she didn’t know which way was up. Kayla deserved far better than a dangerous, broken thing like him.

  He’d kissed her to shut her up, plain and simple. He didn’t need her asking questions about Norgard. She still thought Hart would hand the necklace to Rudrick in exchange for sparing his life. Yeah, right.

  She looked at him with those huge golden-chocolate eyes as if he could slay dragons for her.

  So naïve. He was more likely to feed her to them.

  “So.” He cleared his scratchy throat. “K-9881. Sounds like a location.”

  Her lips parted. Comprehension lit her face. “Of course. The obituary. My mother’s plot. Desi wrote that number on the newspaper clipping.”

  “Get in the car.” She grimaced at the order, probably hurt by his abrupt change from kissing, but she climbed dutifully in the passenger seat. Maybe she understood the danger she was in. He could only hope.

  “Where is Mount Pleasant Cemetery?” she asked.

  “Queen Anne. The Kivati own everything on the hill, from the Space Needle on up. I
wonder why she was buried there. Humans usually aren’t.”

  They crossed the Ship Canal and drove up the hill. Gables and elegant front porches replaced the split-levels and ramblers of lower Queen Anne. The century-old Victorian houses gave the hill its name. Gingerbread and ornamental spindles made the houses seem delicate, but Hart knew inside each one was enough firepower to level a city block. The chimneys spouted steam to power the complex inner workings of the electricity-free, yet incredibly advanced, mechanized house systems. Crows perched in every tree, watching.

  “I hate crows,” Kayla murmured. “Why are there so many here?”

  “The Kivati own them. They’re smart birds. Good spies. Not as sharp as ravens, but easier to control.”

  She shivered. He liked seeing Kayla in his car. Liked it far too much. Her scent filled the enclosed space. He rolled down the window and focused on the road.

  A funeral was in progress at the Mount Pleasant Cemetery, giving them light cover to slip in among the guests. It was packed with out-of-towners, obvious from their more liberal dress, so he and Kayla didn’t stick out. They listened to the Spirit Seeker’s eulogy, some poetic shit about the deceased’s good deeds and safe passage through the Gate. Hart picked out the man’s widow from her straitlaced black gown and her high-pitched wails. She wept next to the pyre, at times drowning the Seeker’s words, surrounded by her grown children, also in black.

  No one would mourn at Hart’s grave. Oscar would show up, but only to empty his pockets. Maybe the Reaper would say a few words over his body. “Hart was a damn fine shot,” or something equally complimentary and uplifting.

  He wondered if Kayla would shed a tear for him. She seemed the sentimental type, but they’d only known each other a day or two. Funny, he felt like it’d been longer. They got on well, and then there was that inconvenient attraction.

  “The plot is this way,” Kayla whispered in his ear. She had located a map and was pointing to a section on the far side of the cemetery. “Let’s go.”

  Then again, maybe not. She had a no-nonsense streak a mile wide. She probably thought funerals were a waste of precious time.

  The cemetery was divided into four sections, one for each sacred Kivati House. Four large totem poles marked the center of each section. Kayla’s mother was buried at the western edge behind a patch of huckleberry bushes. It was a ragged, forgotten corner of an otherwise pristine park.

  Kayla searched the small gravestones. “I don’t see it.”

  “There.” Hart pointed to a short totem pole topped with the Watchmen—three men in tall hats who warned the village of danger. At its foot, hidden in the grass, was the door to a small crypt. He pulled out his sword and cut away the sod from the marble.

  Kayla rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, but she was doing her damnedest to keep it together. He should give her a moment or something. This was her mother’s grave, after all. His mother didn’t even have a grave. He’d burned the body, like she’d taught him, and then he’d run like hell. Her ashes were probably still fluttering around that sad little apartment.

  He kicked a huckleberry bush.

  “Now what?” Kayla asked.

  “How should I know?” He sniffed around, but all he found was salt air, wet grass, and mud. “You still got that Deadglass?” She pulled it from her pocket, and he showed her how to turn the gears to focus the lens. “What do you see?” He held his breath. Wraiths didn’t scare him, but he avoided them if possible. He didn’t like the thought of being stuck in limbo, neither alive here nor free in the Land beyond. Cursed worse than he was now.

  “Nothing,” Kayla said.

  “What do you mean, nothing? It’s a fucking graveyard.” He grabbed the Deadglass back and took a look. She was right. No ghosts. He watched the shimmering Aether, stronger than he’d seen it in years, swirl around the totem pole like a small tornado.

  “So, big guy, see anything interesting?” Kayla leaned against the totem pole and crossed her arms over her chest. It stretched the fabric of her T-shirt taut across her breasts, giving him a fine view.

  “Yup.”

  She scowled. “Give me your sword.”

  Like hell. He raised an eyebrow at her.

  She cocked her hips at an angle, planted her right fist, and held out her left hand. “Stretch it out.”

  Bossy. He kind of liked it.

  He held out the sword, point first. She grabbed the blade with her bare hand. The smell of blood was sharp and sweet. Blood. Her blood. His head was dizzy with it. He breathed short and fast through his mouth. The beast clawed at the inside of his skin. “Little girls should stay away from weapons for exactly that reason,” he bit out.

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time I see a little girl.” She cradled her bloody hand and knelt by the crypt door. He saw where she was going with this idea. Smart woman. He liked that about her. She might have started the game behind the eight ball, but she was catching up fast.

  Blood dripped from her fist and splattered on the cool white marble. Around them, the Aether heated. He could feel it singeing the air, filling his nose with ozone like an approaching storm. Sweat broke on his brow with the effort of controlling the Change.

  She opened her fist and smacked her bloody hand to the stone, palm down. She waited a beat. Nothing happened. “I thought it would open, or something.” A worry line creased her forehead. “Open sesame?” she tried. Still nothing. “It’s got to be in the crypt, right?”

  Hart raised the Deadglass to his eyes and watched the flow of Aether again. It circled the totem pole. He had a weird, itchy feeling that he was missing something. They probably taught this shit in Kivati high school. He’d know how to read the Aether, how to manipulate it, how to weave weather patterns and put the dead to rest if he’d stayed. If he hadn’t been kicked out. His mother had taught him just enough to know what he was looking at, but she didn’t like to talk about the Kivati. Not after what they’d done. He shook his head, trying to keep his mind clear. The blood made his canines descend.

  “Weren’t totem poles sometimes used for burial purposes?” Kayla asked. She had risen from the crypt door and was examining the carvings on the short cedar pole. Her hand still dripped.

  The beast yanked at the flow of Aether and almost forced the Change. She had to cover that thing. Hart pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and grabbed her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his calloused palm. He forced himself to be quick, holding his breath as he bound the cut. “Now stay there.” He dropped her hand before he could give in to the urge to lick it.

  Following the flow of Aether was easy. It wound around the pole and slipped in through a knot in the wood of one of the Watchmen. He pushed his finger through the knot, and a chunk of wood slipped out. A secret door. He slipped his fingers inside and found a cold piece of carved rock. “Got it.” He pulled out a green crescent stone mottled with swirls of white and speckles of black. A leather thong wrapped around both ends allowed it to be worn as a necklace. It smelled sharply of brimstone.

  “We did it. Can I see it?” Kayla gave him a grin that lit up her face.

  He was suddenly struck dumb, and he handed over the stone.

  “How do we know this is it?”

  “Smells like the Gate, but I don’t know for sure. I know someone who will.”

  She turned her face to him, hope brimming in those big eyes. Something tightened in his chest. A guy could get used to that look. “So now that we have this thing, you’re free, right?” she asked.

  The Lady damn him. He’d almost forgotten the point of this little exercise. Kayla didn’t know anything. His expression must have scared her, because she took a fortifying breath. “I mean, Rudrick and his Kivati goons will leave you alone,” she clarified. “They promised.”

  “You can’t trust—”

  “Anyone, yeah, so you’ve said.”

  “Well, you don’t seem to be listening.” He turned his back on her and stormed out of the cemetery.

&nb
sp; Behind him, she panted, trying to catch up. “Where are we going?”

  “Time to see the Reaper.”

  “Who is—?”

  “Another operative. She knows stuff. Get in the car.” Why did she have to do that to him? She made him forget himself. Why couldn’t she have been ugly, or slow, or a man? Smart. Capable. Hot as a siren. He never thought he’d go for a smart chick—too dangerous—but Kayla was something else. And he couldn’t have her.

  Chapter 8

  They drove back around Lake Union, through downtown to Pioneer Square. The landscape changed to brick and stone. Nothing that could burn, not since the Great Fire. A predominance of arches and circular towers gave the streetscape a romantic feel. High limestone blocks edged the sidewalks and gas lamps lined the streets. Antique shops sold mechanized appliances from an older era. Humans claimed they were eco-friendly by using hand cranks and washing boards, but they were nothing but practical. Non-electric tools would always work in Seattle’s rarified environment.

  Near the clock tower of King Street Station, Hart turned onto a seedier side street where the Aether was fecund with magic. It was almost thick enough to touch, and it made him sneeze. Flesh Alley had, at one time, been all brothels, but these days it hosted a wider variety of shops that catered to the supernatural. Wooden dowels protruded from the brick lintels announcing the wares of each store: two apothecaries, a spellbook store, a small armory in a converted stable, an antique shop specializing in dark materials, and an alchemist. The sign for the Drekar brothel advertised “seamstresses.” A banner hanging beneath the sign proclaimed HAPPY NISANNU! SEE OUR SPECIALS! In the upper turret windows, two golden-haired Ishtar’s Maidens sat in spindle chairs. They gossiped as they watched the comings and goings in the street below.

  Two crows perched on the weathervane above them, squawking to each other. They quieted when Hart’s beat-up car turned down the alley and parked in front of Thor’s Hammer. Hart got out. Their beady black eyes focused on him. One flapped its wings and rose into the air. Damn spies. He drew a pistol and aimed, but Kayla made a noise on his other side, and he didn’t fire. When he glanced at her, her eyebrows were pulled together and she was chewing the inside of her cheek. “Hey, I didn’t shoot it.”