Race the Darkness

by Abbie Roads

  Isleen’s breath caught, and Xander heard her heart banging around inside her chest like it wanted to escape and jump in the grave with Gale. She was seeing this. No more zoned out. He wrapped both arms around her, holding her tight, wishing he had words to make this easier on her, but she had to feel the grief. Needed to feel it in order to heal. She clung to him, twisting his shirt in her grip.

  “I’m here,” he whispered against the top of her still-damp head. “I’m with you.”

  Dad looked up at them, his face haggard from the destructive power of grief. Only this time, he didn’t look through Xander. For the first time in decades, his gaze remained. Flames of the old rejection and shame heated Xander’s skin and dampened his pits. He slammed a lid on those emotions, shifted his attention from Dad to Isleen, and refused to look at his father. This was about Isleen’s need for closure, not his dad randomly deciding Xander existed.

  “I owe you an explanation.” Dad’s words were spoken more calmly than Xander had expected, but then silence followed. Only when it became as uncomfortable as a virulent case of jock itch did Xander finally look at Dad. His father’s eyes softened, his face crumpled, and moisture slicked his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought—”

  “Dude.” No fucking way was he calling him Dad to his face. “This isn’t about me. It’s about saying good-bye to Gale. It’s about Isleen getting the closure she needs to heal and move on.”

  His father’s eyes shifted to Isleen. She still clung to Xander, but her face was aimed at the open grave. He sensed her—the her that had been missing for the past few days—close to the surface, ready to break out of the protective shell she’d formed around herself.

  Dad pulled a small leather book from his pocket. The binding was frayed, the leather worn and smudged. “The Legend of Fearless and Bear began three centuries ago. Gale and I both thought their story was our story. We were wrong. Gale left. I let her. Our bond broke. Our story doesn’t have a happy ending.” He held the book to his face and began reading aloud.

  A man, different than all others, used to roam this land. A man who was more than man. He carried a bit of spirit inside him. But even that bit of spirit was too great to contain within. Some of it showed on his skin.

  The People, suspicious of all things unknown, believed a Bad Spirit had marked him—cursed him—for all to see. For all to avoid. For all to fear. The People believed the Bad Spirit wanted their souls.

  So the man lived a solitary, nomadic life, nearly driven mad by isolation. One day a desperate loneliness overtook him. He tried to fight it, but was drawn to a field of women harvesting corn.

  The women ran from him screaming.

  A maiden stayed behind. Unlike the others, she did not fear him, but walked directly to him. Her face and arms bore the remains of a hundred healing wounds. He held out his hand to her.

  She didn’t hesitate, but settled her palm in his. A jolt of fire passed between them, but neither withdrew.

  The maiden closed her eyes. “Take my life, and you may have my soul.”

  He stared at her, mesmerized by her fearlessness. Why would she want to die?

  When death did not claim her, she opened her eyes and pulled her hand from his.

  He saw a pain inside her greater than what her body had endured. “Why do you wish to die?” he asked her.

  “I possess dream sight. I’ve seen my fate and would rather die than submit. Death would be freedom.”

  “Do you not fear me?”

  “I fear this life more than you.”

  The sounds of many feet running through the forest came to man and maiden.

  “Kill me now. I do not wish to survive another sunrise in the village.”

  “I do not take souls.”

  The maiden’s face twisted as if in great pain.

  “Come with me.” The man held out his hand.

  Men burst through the far side of the field.

  The maiden hesitated only a moment before she placed her hand in his. As one, they turned and ran—together somehow swifter than the fastest of warriors. They ran until the dark of night covered the earth and the man no longer sensed anyone following them.

  At a stream, they stopped. He lowered himself to the ground and the maiden collapsed atop him, knocking him back against the earth. Fearing his curse had claimed her, he grasped her shoulders and lifted her to see her face.

  Her eyes made great pools of water that rained down her cheeks and fell upon his lips.

  “Do not fear me.” He tried to move away from her. “I will not kill you. I will not take your soul.”

  She clung to him, pressing her wet face against his neck. “I am not afraid. My eyes wash away the memories of the Bad Ones so I may live in peace.”

  Her lack of fear, her willing touch, astonished him.

  He named her Fearless, and she called him Bear for his great size and ferocity in protecting her. She soothed his loneliness by her presence. And she found joy for the first time. No longer under the control of the Bad Ones, she smiled and laughed when she never had before.

  Bear suspected the Bad Ones were trying to reclaim Fearless and moved them constantly. Sometimes his senses tingled, and in those moments, they would do as they had done at the first. Run. Hand in hand through the forest.

  Bear and Fearless grew closer and closer until Bear began to worry over his feelings for her.

  His fear came to life when Fearless was struck with a deep affliction. She needed the medicine of a powerful healer to save her. For weeks Bear traveled, carrying her to the wisest medicine woman.

  He was not permitted in villages or near dwellings. It was feared the Bad Spirit would claim a soul in each dwelling he passed, unless he himself offered his life. And he would, for he valued Fearless’s life above his own.

  He carried her to the village center, the location of the tribe’s power. The tribe’s men surrounded him, brandishing their knives and hatchets, waiting for the wise woman’s command.

  In the light of the fading sun, the wise woman cried a keening wail that hushed the people. She examined Fearless’s wrist, spit on the star-shaped mark, and rubbed her tunic over the spot. Then she raised Fearless’s wrist up for the tribe to witness. The people whooped and yelled, welcoming Fearless to the tribe.

  The wise woman would care for her now. Bear laid Fearless down gently and tucked the heavy robes around her.

  “You.” The wise woman pointed her gnarled finger at him.

  He stepped back from his only love, his head held high and waited for death.

  “You are the answer to my prayers. My enemies had sought to destroy my power by stealing my babe. Every day I have chanted a spell of protection for her and prayed for her return. You are marked, yet nothing can destroy your bond. You are my prayers come to life. You are her protector.”

  “She is afflicted and needs strong medicine,” Bear said.

  “I do not have the power. She is with the ancestors.”

  Bear dropped to his knees beside Fearless. The light had faded from her, and he witnessed the truth of the woman’s words. He lifted his head and howled. The sound roared through the village, startling all who heard.

  When he quieted, the medicine woman placed his hand over Fearless’s forehead. “I do not possess the power to call her soul back, but you are her destined one. You alone have the power to heal her.”

  “I do not know the way.”

  “The Spirit inside will guide you.”

  Bear stilled, but the Spirit did not speak. The only thing in his mind was Fearless. He closed his eyes and chanted her name, remembered her laugh, her face, the soft sounds of her breathing as he lay with her.

  Bear did not stop chanting until Fearless touched his hand. He opened his eyes. The light had returned to Fearless, the affliction gone.

  The wise woman knelt next to
them. “Daughter, you are returned to me a woman, but I love you as I loved the babe inside me.” She grasped both their hands. “Together you create a shield stronger than the oak. No harm will come to either of you while touching the other. As long as light shines in one of you, the other will live.”

  At the wise woman’s welcome, the tribe accepted Fearless and Bear. The wise woman taught Fearless her healing skills. Fearless’s night sight—seeing in her dreams that which she couldn’t see during the day—grew until she became the wisest woman of the region.

  A time of great peace and prosperity settled over the land. From many moons away, people sought Fearless’s healing and counsel.

  The Bad Ones tried three times to kill Fearless, but they did not succeed. Nothing ever harmed Fearless and Bear, for they remained always together. Their bond, stronger than the hills, kept them from harm.

  As they approached the end of their earthly lives, Bear carved a totem on the crest of the highest hill to remind all in the region that good always triumphed over evil, for he would protect Fearless into eternity.

  They went to the ancestors together. The tribe built a great funeral pyre in honor of them and anointed their bodies in bear grease before setting the blaze. Every village in the region witnessed the black smoke burning in the sky.

  A week later, after the fire cooled, the tribe gathered the ash and rubbed it over Bear’s totem to seal their power together inside the carving for eternity.

  * * *

  The world of Fearless and Bear was so real and alive that Isleen could smell the ash from their funeral pyre. Only it wasn’t ash she smelled, it was the dark, earthy scent of fresh dirt. The kind of soil that could only be found when digging a deep hole. Like for a grave. An image of a beautifully carved coffin floated in front of her closed eyes. Gran’s coffin. Oh no. She wasn’t going to open her eyes. No way. It wasn’t safe out there—outside the shell of herself. Her only chance of survival was to keep floating in the dreamy haze of another time and be held safe in Xander’s arms. He wouldn’t let anything out there hurt her.

  A raindrop pattered against her arm, another one on the top of her head. All around, hundreds of drops splattered against the grass, the leaves, but one sound wasn’t natural. The hollow thunking of rain against polished wood. No, no, no. She was not going to think about that.

  A spike of thunder split the sky, the unexpectedness of it jolting her body. Xander tightened his grip on her, as if assuring her with his actions that he would protect her. But a fine, barely perceptible trembling traveled through his arms, up to his shoulders, and down his chest, until even the skin underneath her cheek twitched.

  Something was wrong with Xander. She clenched her eyes shut, scrunched her face up, and held on tight to him. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t open her eyes, or talk to him. It was dangerous out there. But what if the danger wasn’t just to her? What if Xander was in danger? Because of her?

  A low serrated growl rolled across the sky. Xander wheezed in a breath of air, his lungs expanding, then contracting so violently her body rocked against his. What had been a gentle trembling morphed into full-on violent quivering of muscle. The light of realization went on inside her brain.

  They were in a storm. He had said he’d been struck by lightning.

  “Xander?” Her voice was drowned out by another crack of thunder.

  She tried to pull out of his hold to see him, but his grip was steel. “Xander. Let me go.” Panic—not for herself, for him—edged into her tone. Her eyes shot open. “Xan—”

  “Baby?” He didn’t let go of her, just gave her room to pull back and see his face. His face was the color of milk, his scars the color of blood, and his eyes were an unnameable color that could only be described as tortured. “You’re back.”

  “Are you all right?” She raised her hand to his cheek, needing to sooth the angry scars.

  At her touch, he turned his face into her palm. “You’re asking if I’m all right?” His voice was thick, and he seemed to struggle to speak at all. “Are you all right?” Keeping one arm around her, he gestured to the side.

  She didn’t want to look, but her eyes moved before she could stop them. What they saw, she could never un-see. They stood next to the jaws of an open grave. Gran’s grave. Inside that exquisite box lay Gran’s body.

  Right after they’d been taken, she and Gran had fought for each other, fought to keep one another safe and sane, but when Gran’s mind had started going, Isleen had battled alone. Always struggling to protect Gran, to keep her alive for when they were rescued. For when they could start living again. But now, her fight was over. She had failed. Gran was dead. And it was all because of her.

  You are the Dragon, a vile beast set upon this earth by the foulest of demons. Your evil will corrupt all. You will slay everyone you love. It is your nature. Queen’s words rose up out of the pit of buried memory and echoed through Isleen’s mind. She’d never believed Queen until now. Until this moment of truth.

  She’d watched the man pour that poison into Gran’s mouth. Had watched Gran die. And had done nothing.

  Her throat opened, and a wild mix of anguish, grief, and guilt spewed out of her in a sound so primal even the storm around them seemed to diminish under the immensity of her pain. A tornado of bad memories swirled around her, only there wouldn’t be a rainbow-colored Oz after this cyclone. There would be nothing left of her but the bad memories. She wouldn’t survive if she had to remember everything. It was too much. Too much. Too much. She beat the sides of her head with her fists.

  “Stop. Right now!” Xander’s voice cut through the anguish at the same time his hands grabbed her wrists and forced them down to her sides. She tried to slam her head against his chest—physical pain being so much easier to deal with than the memories. He yanked her fully against him pinioning her arms at her sides and holding her tight. “I know what you’re trying to do. You need to feel this.”

  “I can’t. IcantIcantIcant…” Everything she never wanted to remember was right there in front of her mind’s eye, and this time she couldn’t escape. Grief stole her breath. Regret broke her heart. Guilt shattered her into a thousand tiny shards.

  Chapter 15

  Reality and its repercussions tore Isleen away from sleep’s sacred oblivion. There was no moment of confusion between drowsing and waking. Nope. It was all right there with one horrifying memory ruling them all.

  She lay on the couch where Xander had settled them after they’d gotten back from Gran’s grave. Directly across from her, a wide window opened onto a swath of yard, sloping down into an enchanting thicket of trees where wood fairies and mythical creatures ought to live. Overhead, the sky was an elusive shade of blue more translucent and gossamer than any color created by man. This place was all so magical and majestic and, for her, temporary.

  Because she remembered.

  Everything.

  She remembered every terrifying act done to Gran, done to her. Her body remembered the pain. And her soul echoed with the memory of Gran’s death. The horrifying memory of watching the priest pour the poison into Gran’s mouth and being forced to witness Gran’s life and love and possibility die.

  And Isleen had done nothing except watch. She should’ve done something. Should’ve forced her body to intervene. If only she’d tried harder.

  When she had first remembered, the agony of her lack of action had been unbearable, but she’d survived. Because of Xander. He hadn’t let her go, and by the simple action of holding her tight, he’d glued all her shattered pieces together. So instead of being broken, she only felt fragile.

  Salt crust from yesterday’s torrent of tears gritted in her eyes. She didn’t bother to rub away the grime. She’d cried herself to sleep in the safety of Xander’s arms. He infused her with strength and injected her with courage. She inhaled a lungful of bravery, then held her breath. Nothing in the future could be a
s bad as what lived in her memory. Small consolation, but still a consolation. She exhaled all cowardice.

  “Baby?” Xander’s nickname for her warmed her in even the coldest places.

  She turned away from the view outside to see him coming toward her, carrying a glass of water, and suddenly the comforting warmth turned into a bonfire of shame. When he found out she’d just watched Gran die… What if he already knew?

  Her gaze locked on the clear liquid gently sloshing as he approached her. She pulled herself upright, continuing to stare at the glass. This was no time for denial and avoidance. It was time for honesty. Could she handle the look of condemnation on his face when he found out?

  She’d just keep breathing, and that would keep her heart pumping. Basic system functioning would remain intact. Right? She forced herself to look him in the face.

  “How’d you sleep?” Xander asked, holding the glass out to her. “No dreams? No nightmares?”

  She heard him talking, but her brain wasn’t linking meaning to his words. It was busy memorizing each detail of him for when she lost him. His scars wound up out of his shirt, over his neck, up his cheek then alongside his temple and flared out over half his forehead. They were stunning in a way that wasn’t meant for words. She hoped Camille—his perfect, gorgeous girlfriend—loved his scars as much as she did.

  Not knowing what to say, she nabbed the glass out of Xander’s hand and began drinking. The water tasted sweet and refreshing, and she greedily slurped it down, not realizing how thirsty she was until the first satisfying swallow.

  “Slow down. It’s not a chugging contest. Don’t want you getting sick.”

  She drained the last drop. “Wow. You have the best water.” She gasped for air, having forgotten to breathe while drinking.

  “There’s plenty more where that came from. Come on, you need some food too.”

  He offered her a hand. No way was she going to resist an opportunity to touch him. His skin was warm and reassuring. More than anything, she wanted to step into him, have him wrap his arms around her and absorb into him, until she was hidden in the center of him where no one and nothing could find her or hurt her ever again.