Burning Darkness

by Jaime Rush

  Magnus turned to her. “What can you do?”

  She blinked in confusion before realizing what he was talking about.

  Eric said, “How about I introduce you first? Fonda Raine, this is Magnus McLeod. Magnus, Fonda.”

  Magnus reached over and shook her hand. “Sorry. You could say I was raised in a barn, but we—my brother and I—were actually raised in the woods, not many new people to meet.”

  He was still driving fast, even while shaking her hand and looking at her.

  She loved going fast, too fast, but right now she was more into finding out everything she could. “I can astral project and touch objects at the target location.” She tried not to think about exactly what objects she’d been touching lately. “And I just discovered I can freeze time for a few seconds.”

  He nodded, finally looking ahead. “Can you project to other time periods?”

  Her eyes widened. “I’ve never even thought about that.”

  “Our father could do.” He had a slight Scottish accent. “My brother inherited that. Give it a try sometime. But be careful.” He looked at Eric in the mirror again. “You told her about using her abilities too much?”

  “Briefly. But not about Lachlan.”

  “What happened to Lachlan?” she asked.

  “If we overuse our abilities, we can go crazy. Dad called it psychosis. My father worked for years to find an antidote to Blue Moon, using himself as a human guinea pig. It was never stable, which drove him to distraction trying to figure out why. He hadn’t felt it was stable enough to give to us yet.”

  “Blue Moon is what Wallace called the substance,” Eric clarified.

  Magnus downshifted and took a corner tight and fast. “Lachlan secretly got addicted to astral travel. He’d go down to the basement and hide what he was doing, like doing drugs. He went to the battle of Culloden and slipped over the edge. Killed our mum thinking she was an enemy British soldier. Bad bit of business, that.” His eyes darkened, even though he’d sounded casual enough. “After Mum died, Dad gave us the antidote, stable or no. He still hadn’t quite got it right when he died. We made up another batch”—again he looked at Eric—”if you need some.”

  “No way,” Eric said. “I can’t afford to potentially lose my abilities now.”

  Magnus glanced at her. “That’s a side effect of the antidote. But it’s worth it to save your sanity, or your life, if it comes to that. Lachlan lost his powers; I didn’t.”

  “What can you do?”

  “Make myself appear to be invisible.”

  They went over a bridge that spanned a river. Magnus peppered her with questions about the program and Darkwell, then asked, “Where are your loyalties now?”

  “To no one.”

  “You’ll have to commit to a side at some point. Best to do it now while you’re clear-headed. Waffling will only get you killed.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  He looked at Eric in the mirror again. “We did have a problem with the antidote. In the melee before Darkwell’s people descended on us, the formula for the latest version was destroyed. My father wrote everything on paper. A typo nearly destroyed one of his experiments, so he never did his important calculations on the computer. He kept everything in a notebook, every version he’d tried in the last five years. The antidote itself spilled onto the notebook and distorted the writing of the last section. The antidote we made up is the version before that. My father tested it on the mice but not on himself or us.”

  “Well, that makes me want to jump right in,” Eric said, his mouth twisted.

  Magnus pulled down a gravel road, and Fonda realized he had kept her so busy answering questions, she hadn’t taken notice of their route . . . his intention, no doubt. She had lived much of her life in a state of survival, protective and alert, so she couldn’t blame him.

  They came around a corner on the gravel road and saw an earthen-colored wall with an ornate gate in the center. Beyond it was a lush garden and then the house. Green scrollwork adorned the top of the wall. Magnus pulled up to a building set off to the right, a simple square structure with four garage doors, two of which were open. He slammed into the garage at a stunning speed, hitting the brakes just before they might have smashed into the back wall. When she could pry her fingers off the door handle, she saw that the garage looked like a mechanic’s shop.

  “We learned to fix our own stuff,” Magnus said when she got out and stared at all the equipment and parts hanging on the walls.

  Eric pulled himself out of the car with a groan. He also took in the shop, his mouth slightly open. “This is a mechanic’s wet dream.”

  An old white truck was in the bay on the right, and a man who resembled Magnus, only leaner and with long wavy hair, stalked over, a wrench in his hand. It looked like he was going to use it on them. Or, seeing where his angry gaze focused, on Eric. Great. Now what had Eric gotten them into?

  Chapter 8

  Amy had taken to sleeping outside Lucas’s bedroom door, by the dresser they had to wedge in there. Later she would get up and go back to the room she shared with Petra. She would not be far away from Lucas, but he wouldn’t let her sleep in the same room as him. Before, it was for her safety; now he was angry with her.

  She didn’t hope for forgiveness or reconciliation. All she wanted was for him to express that anger in ways other than silence. It hurt, in every part of her body, but she deserved it. Now she would pay the price for loving him. Lucas’s behavior didn’t surprise her; she knew how he felt about getting the antidote. That he tried to take the blame, well, it brought tears to her eyes. Stunned her. What was going on with him?

  When she heard Lucas calling for her, she thought it was her dreams. God, if only he would come to her dreams, if only he could. As far as she knew, he hadn’t even tried recently.

  When he whispered her name again, she sat straight up. “Lucas?”

  “I want to talk.”

  She jumped to her feet and pushed away the dresser enough to slip inside the open door. He closed it, and before saying a word, started kissing her.

  She melted into his mouth, craving his touch. Even if he just wanted her body, she would give it without expecting more. Yeah, that’s how bad it was.

  He stripped off her clothes, kissing her neck, shoulders, and breasts. He nipped at her, and even the pain felt good.

  “Lucas . . .”

  “Shhh.” He moved to the bed, never taking his mouth from her body. He wore only sweatpants bottoms, and he maneuvered those off without breaking his stride. In seconds he also had her long T-shirt and panties off, too. She felt him enter her, felt as though she’d come home after a long cold journey. The room was dark, only the dimmest light coming from the clock on the dresser. She wished she could see his face.

  He came, filling her with throbbing heat. He gripped her shoulders as his body arched. Maybe it had just been a while, but usually he lasted much longer. She ached for longer. Would he send her away now or hold her through the night? Could he forgive her that quickly?

  His hands slid from her shoulders to her neck, his caress anything but gentle. His fingers went around her throat and started squeezing. Her eyes popped open.

  Lucas would never hurt her, not for any reason.

  Not Lucas! Sayre!

  “Lucas!” Her voice was garbled.

  Her heart slammed in her chest, pounding right up into her ears. She tried to bring her knee up into his groin, but he pinned her down. She shoved her head forward, slamming it into his forehead. Taking advantage of his shock, she pushed him aside and then fell on top of him. “Lucas!” She shook him by the shoulders, banging him against the floor.

  He blinked and groaned. “Amy?” His voice sounded disoriented. “What—”

  “Sayre.”

  The relief that poured through her! Lucas was back. Then disgust and then grief that he hadn’t called her in at all. She got up and turned on the light. He sat up, still naked, rubbing his forehead where she’d
banged into him. Her forehead was aching, too. Then his gaze went to her, standing naked by the dresser.

  Her voice was shaky. “You called me, and when I came in, you started . . . kissing me. I thought . . . never mind. We made love, but it wasn’t you.” She shivered. “God, I don’t know how to even feel. It was you, your body. But it wasn’t you inside.”

  He came to his feet and pulled her close. “Are you all right?”

  She closed her eyes against him. “I don’t know.”

  He leaned back and pushed her hair from her face. “I’ll kill him if I can. I don’t know if I can get into his dreams, but I’m going to try.” He picked up her clothes and handed them to her. “I don’t want you here.”

  “But—”

  “Go. It’s too dangerous.”

  She saw his anger at Sayre. She saw that he was afraid for her. It was what she didn’t see that made her the most afraid. She didn’t see love.

  The man pointed the wrench at Eric, coming to a stop a foot in front of him. “I want you and that girl out of here by tomorrow. Or sooner.”

  Eric hadn’t budged, other than stiffening his shoulders. “I already told Magnus we wouldn’t be here long. And ‘that girl’ is your half sister, Fonda Raine. Fonda, this is Lachlan.”

  He didn’t look as though he was going to shake her hand when he turned his hard gaze to her. “I don’t consider you family. Just because my father screwed some tart—”

  “Knock it off,” Eric said, raising his hand as though he was about to do just that.

  Other people’s anger always ignited hers, too. “Your father was as much a tart as my mother.” She turned to Eric. “And I don’t need you to step in for me. I grew up around guys who were as tough as any of you; I know how to take care of myself.”

  His eyebrow rose, though he looked more interested than annoyed.

  Lachlan jabbed his finger at her. “Don’t you say a word about my father.”

  “Well, it appears that he’s my father, too, so I’ll say what I want.”

  Magnus stepped in, rolling his eyes. “Lachlan, give it a rest.”

  Lachlan pointed at Eric, but looked at Fonda. “Be careful with your boyfriend here. He’s likely to explode, and he’ll take you with him.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” She could hardly get the words out fast enough. “He killed my boyfriend.” Before they could ask more about that, she asked, “What do you mean, ‘he’ll explode’?”

  “I see the same edge in his eyes that I saw in my own . . . before I exploded.” And killed his mother. He looked at Eric. “You won’t take the antidote, will you? Have you had any hallucinations?”

  Eric flicked his gaze to hers for a second. “No.”

  “Agitation, impulse control problems, blackouts, or sleeplessness?”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Fonda answered. “He’s been suffering sleep deprivation.” She turned to him. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot, but she could also see an edge in them.

  Eric glared at Lachlan. “Yeah, and look how happy you are now that you’ve taken the antidote and lost your abilities.”

  Lachlan flung the wrench, fortunately not at anyone, and stomped back to the truck. “I don’t understand why you insist we help these people,” he said, presumably to Magnus.

  Magnus took a step closer to Eric, his voice lowered. “Be careful, mate. Lachlan didn’t know who we were that day. He was locked in another time period, another world. He would have killed us all if we hadn’t stopped him. But he’ll never forgive himself. And you won’t either.”

  “When I start visiting other time periods, I’ll keep that in mind. How long until the truck is ready?”

  “Probably tomorrow morning.”

  “Tonight,” Lachlan said in a firm voice.

  “Come to the house, get cleaned up. I’ll feed you dinner and then we’ll get you on your way.”

  Fonda followed Magnus, trying not to look back to see if Eric was behind her. Unfortunately, she could feel him back there, that dense hot energy she’d felt when astrally touching him.

  The gate was open, and they walked through it into a strange and beautiful garden. Mixed among the flowers were oddly shaped and colored things that had little signs with long scientific names. The late afternoon sun that filtered down through the trees lit up copper wires that covered the courtyard like a spiderweb. They followed a curving path to a stained-glass door; the walls on either side were glass.

  “It’s an enchanting place,” she said. In a strange kind of way. It made her wonder about the man who’d built it.

  “My . . . perhaps our father loved fungi and slime molds,” Magnus said, as though reading her mind. “Pardon my bluntness, but what is your natural hair color?”

  She pointed to her head. “Well, not the pink, of course. People don’t believe me, but this is my true color.”

  Magnus nodded, then opened the door, walked inside and waved for them to follow. Narrow hallways stretched in both directions, and the glass walls looked into another courtyard with even more odd growths and a black pond in the center. She was so entranced, she was surprised when Magnus put a framed picture in front of her face. “Our father,” he said, this time a bit more assuredly.

  The man in the picture reminded her of Sting, with short, white-blond hair and sea-green eyes. Definitely her hair. She wasn’t sure what to feel, but when her eyes tingled the way they did just before she cried, it surprised her. All these years, the man who had failed her, who hadn’t loved her enough, wasn’t even her real father.

  “What kind of father was he?” she asked, embarrassed to hear the hoarseness in her voice.

  “We used to kid him that he loved his fungi as much as us, but he was a good man. He did everything he could for us, spent his life keeping us safe. Even to the end.”

  His words hit her in the chest. Richard Wallace protected his children.

  “It’s hard to find your father and not be able to know him,” Eric said in a soft voice, his gaze on the picture. “I’m sorry I took that away from you.”

  She looked sharply up at his apology, one she could tell he meant. He met her gaze. She looked back at the picture, unable to deal with the apology. He knew the loss as she did, but she couldn’t share that with him.

  She handed the picture back to Magnus. “Thank you.”

  “Maybe another time you can come back, and we’ll show you videotapes of him.” He waved past a small sitting area intimately lit by small silver lights that dangled from long cords, and beyond that, a kitchen. “Do you need clothes?”

  “We bought one change of clothes,” Fonda said.

  “You’ll need more than that. Eric, you could probably fit into mine.” He assessed Fonda. “You’re a bit smaller than my mum, but I think you could manage.” At her surprised look, he said, “My father kept all of her things. And despite the circumstances, she was a generous woman. She won’t be haunting me. Or you.”

  For giving her husband’s bastard daughter her clothes. “You’re sure?”

  He nodded. “Come.”

  She followed him into a large bedroom that had probably been the master. It seemed preserved, the air stale, a thin layer of dust on the dresser. He opened a door that, amazingly, led into a closet the size of another room.

  “Groovy,” she said on a reverent breath, taking in the drawers, shelves, and racks of shoes. “I think I’m in love with your mom.” She glanced at him. “No disrespect intended.”

  Magnus chuckled. “None taken. Mum was a clotheshorse, kept her clothes for years. She didn’t get out much, but she loved dressing up. I think it filled something inside her, something no one else could.”

  Fonda walked in, taking in the small chandelier—a chandelier in a closet?—the chair in the center, and then racks and racks of clothing. Being around clothing filled her with a joy she couldn’t explain. All those years she’d lived on hand-me-downs, and what she loved most was vintage clothing. Her eyes were wide, and it was the first
time she’d smiled, really smiled, in what had to be well over a month. She spun around, taking in all the colors and fabrics, and then came face-to-face with Eric, who was watching her with a bemused expression. She turned away. The swell in her chest was only about the clothing.

  She turned back to Magnus, who also seemed amused by her. “Sorry. I love clothing, too. Go ahead and pick whatever you feel is best.”

  “They’re just sitting here, Fonda. It’s not as though we’ll get any use of them. Take what you want.”

  Those words soared through her, making her fingers tingle. Don’t get greedy, girl. She walked slowly, controlling herself, to one rack. Breathe. Don’t act like an idiot. She started pushing each hanger to the right, taking a look at the items. With a gasp, she took down a mod black twill jacket. “Courrges, made in France!” She traced her finger along the belt, then looked at the label at the back. “Real sixties era, because it doesn’t have the logo on the tag yet.” This would fetch well over a thousand bucks at the boutique. She held it up to her and walked to the full-length mirror, then sighed with both awe and regret. No way could she risk ruining something like this. She hung it back up and took down an adorable, blue sixties dress with flowing sleeves. “A boho dress!” She turned to Magnus. “Your mom was cool.”

  “Yeah, I think she actually wore that in the sixties. I never saw it on her. Take it. It’ll look good on you.”

  “Hobo dress?” Eric asked.

  “Boho. Like Bohemian.”

  Magnus said, “Pick whatever you want to carry with you. I’ll get a bag to pack it in and a few things for you, too,” he said to Eric, and then added with a saucy lift of his eyebrow, “Unless you want to pick out your own.”

  Eric gave him a phony laugh, but he was still watching her. She met his gaze in the mirror and shifted back to the dress. “We got one of these in the boutique once, but Marion got first dibs.”

  “Boutique?”

  She hung the dress on a lower rod and kept looking. “I managed a vintage clothing boutique before I worked for Darkwell.”