Darkness Divine

by P. C. Cast

  “Then he didn’t say that?” he demanded, feeling as if she’d just ripped the floor out from under him. “You lied to me?”

  “No, I didn’t lie. That is what he told me,” she said huskily, biting the corner of her lower lip. “But then my father was always a hopeless romantic. It seems he had some fanciful notion in his head that you secretly care for me, and that we would stay together. I just… I know that it’s impossible. I didn’t mean to upset you, and I have no intention of making myself a nuisance by following after you. Obviously, you’re free to do as you like.”

  He grunted at that, and began pacing from one side of the small cave to the other, the coiled tension in his body no doubt visible in every hard, muscular line, radiating a hot, violent blast of aggression. She should have been terrified at the thought of being alone with him, but for some reason, she seemed to feel perfectly safe there in his presence.

  “Will someone bury him?” she asked softly, the small catch in her voice reminding him that she was inwardly grieving, no matter how brave a face she tried to put on for him. He wanted to go to her and wrap her up in his arms, cradling her against his chest, and offer what comfort he could, but knew it was too dangerous. It had been bad enough having her so close as they’d ridden, when his mind was focused on making sure they weren’t being followed. Now that they had settled in for the night, with no distractions, it was imperative that he keep as much distance between them as he could.

  And yet he seemed to keep moving closer…and closer.

  Clearing his throat, he answered her question, saying, “I’m sure Mrs. Blackstone will return to the cottage tomorrow. When she discovers what’s happened, she’ll see to it that his body is cared for. But you mustn’t go back there, Alia. Ever. There’s no telling who’s after these crosses, and no way of knowing how many others they’re working with. Finding them is only going to solve the first problem. After that, we’ve got to figure out what to do with them.”

  And then he would have to figure out what to do with her.

  She nodded, her small body rocking back and forth, as if she were trying to keep warm…or seek comfort from the rhythmic motion. God only knew she’d been through hell that night, only to be stuck there with him. Though Rhys knew he should have been feeling rank and vile after everything that had happened, just watching her seemed to gentle his icy anger, her alluring scent teasing his nose…his senses. It was that familiar, provocative scent of heated jasmine that he associated with Alia, and he wondered how she always managed to smell so delicious. Was it in her soap? Or did she rub the flower’s oil into her naked flesh, so that the evocative scent rose with the heat of her body, with each heavy pulse of her heart?

  Desperate to steer his mind into safer territory, he pushed a few windblown strands of hair back from his forehead and said, “Tell me about your father’s work.” She’d briefly explained during the ride about the images her father had put into her mind, the montage relaying what they needed to do, but Rhys had several questions that he wanted answered.

  She hugged her legs tighter against her body, still gently rocking, a deep breath shuddering from her lungs as she turned her head to meet his gaze. “Well, you already know about his studies—his secret search for the lost archives. Somehow they led him to the ancient caves in Wookey Hole. Not knowing for sure what the crosses were or why they’d been hidden there, he took only one, intending to study it. He was hoping it might lead to the archives, but it didn’t.”

  “Did he have any idea why anyone would want them?” he asked. “Any theories on their purpose?”

  She nodded her head slowly. “My father had his suspicions.”

  He arched his brows, waiting for her to continue. She seemed to take a moment to collect her thoughts, then said, “Have you ever heard of the Dark Markers?”

  “The weapons meant to destroy the Casus?” he asked with a note of surprise, remembering the stories he’d first heard as a child. The Casus were a sadistic, mutated clan who had gone to war with the Merrick hundreds of years ago—the conflict lasting until the Consortium had finally imprisoned the Casus in an unknown holding ground, where the immortal monsters were no doubt still rotting away. The Casus’s indiscriminate killing of human victims had brought about the rise of the Collective Army, which had destroyed the first Consortium. Rumor had it that before their destruction, the Consortium had managed to create weapons—the Dark Markers—that would actually destroy a Casus’s soul, their intention to return to the hidden holding ground and execute the vile race once and for all. But when the members of the Consortium had been killed, the archives had been lost, along with any record of the Markers, as well as the location of the holding ground itself. For centuries, those who knew about the Consortium’s plans had speculated about whether the Markers had ever even actually been created, or if they were merely nothing more than folklore.

  She nodded again in answer to his question, while the dancing firelight brought out the reddish tones in the long hair streaming over her graceful shoulders, down the graceful line of her back. “There’s been endless speculation about what the Dark Markers looked like, but my father believed that the crosses he’d found might actually be them. If he was right, who do you think would want the weapons enough to kill for them?”

  His fury roiled at the thought of one of his friends turning traitor, but he beat it down. Better to think about it later, when Alia wasn’t there to be harmed if he lost control. Trying to get a grip on his rage, he said, “I’m not sure, but I suppose it could be the Collective. I know they’ve been as desperate to reach the archives as the Consortium has been. But I’m not sure what the Collective would want with the Markers. I mean, unless they knew how to use them to get into the holding ground and kill the Casus. But you’d think they’d come after clansmen like us before worrying about the ones who are locked away.”

  “My father thought there was another purpose,” she told him. “One that the original Consortium had probably written about in the archives. One that would be a dangerous threat if it ended up in the wrong hands. It could be that someone out there knows this. Someone who would want to help the Casus in some way.”

  He swore under his breath at the thought, then glanced toward the beautiful cross that rested against her chest, the firelight glittering against its metallic surface. “May I see it?” he asked.

  She took the cross from where it hung around her neck on a velvet cord and offered it up to him as he approached, saying, “It’s very beautiful. And warm. I swear you can feel its power thrumming beneath its surface.”

  Taking it from her hand, Rhys crouched down beside the crackling fire and studied the strange object, wondering if it could truly be one of the legendary Markers. It was in the shape of a Maltese cross, with four thick, equal arms, the surface covered in tiny, intricate symbols that he didn’t recognize. Fashioned from a black, glossy metal, it should have been cold to the touch, but was actually warm, just as she’d said, burning against his skin, as well as heavier than he’d expected. Rhys did his best to keep his attention focused on his study of the cross, searching his mind for where he might have seen the symbols before, but Alia’s presence was too distracting. Her scent was stronger now, her skin warmed by the fire, making it difficult for him to think beyond how badly he wanted to touch her…taste her. He knew the danger he was courting in allowing his thoughts to drift into such treacherous territory, but he couldn’t stop.

  “Whoever wants them must be powerful. Powerful enough to find my father and turn one of your men.” She pulled in a soft, trembling breath, then slowly let it out. “That means they’re powerful enough to kill us, as well.”

  The change in topic jarred him, and he almost gave a deep, throaty laugh, only just managing to choke off the uncharacteristic sound at the last moment. Here he’d been wondering how she managed to smell so mouth-wateringly good, and she sat beside him, worrying over whether she was going to live or die.

  Lust, it seemed, had finally addle
d his brain.

  “No one will get near you, Alia. Not if I can help it,” he said in a low voice, handing the cross back to her, careful to avoid the touch of her fingers.

  “But they’re going to try to kill us, aren’t they?” she asked, setting the cross beside her on the blanket, before looking back at him.

  A sharp, bitter sound scraped his throat. “Killing wouldn’t be the first thing they’d do to you,” he said quietly.

  For a moment, she appeared uncertain of his meaning, and then she gave a slow nod of understanding. “You’re right. They’ll want me to tell them everything that my father might have shared with me. They’ll want to know what I know..”

  “Among other things,” he muttered under his breath.

  Her head tilted the barest fraction to the side, her look quizzical, as if she didn’t understand, and he heard himself saying, “My men could never take their eyes off you, Barrett included. You bewitch every man who sees you.”

  She made a shy sound of embarrassment and rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not,” he said in such a low voice, he doubted she’d even heard him.

  It was a moment before she said anything more. Instead, she simply watched him, her dark eyes studying him through her long lashes, as if she were trying to see beneath his skin. Inside his head. Beneath his shields. It made him feel…odd. He would have thought the strange feeling was nervousness, but he’d never been nervous about anything in his life. To be nervous, you had to care. And he’d never really cared much about anything, either, except for his friends…the safety of those under his protection.

  And this one mesmerizing witch.

  Finally, her gaze slid away, focusing on the cave wall as she said, “Well, I never would have noticed their attention. I was always—” she looked down, gave a soft, nervous laugh “—I was always too busy watching you.”

  “Alia.” Her name fell from his lips like a hard, biting scrape of sound.

  “Yes?” The word was nothing more than a barely there whisper, her eyes still not meeting his, her pale fingers wound together in a tense, clenching knot.

  “Don’t,” he warned her, his voice so thick and rough, it barely sounded human.

  She took another deep breath, then slowly lifted her face, her shy, luminous gaze finding his, staring straight into him. The look there was so tender and bright that he almost flinched. “Don’t what?”

  “Play games with me,” he said with a hard bite of warning. “You’ll find yourself… It could be… Just don’t.”

  “I wasn’t playing a game,” she whispered. “I was just trying to be honest, Rhys. There’s been so much silence between us, I thought it might be nice to speak the truth for once.”

  He rolled his shoulder, his body going hot more from the look in her deep blue eyes than the heat of the fire. “You were wrong,” he said flatly.

  “You’d rather I lie?” she asked, raising her brows.

  He closed his eyes, silently begging for patience, wondering why she’d decided to torture him this way. Was she in shock? Or simply bored? In need of a distraction? Whatever the reason, it was going to destroy him.

  “No,” he finally forced out, his tone grim. “I don’t want you to lie. Just…keep your words to yourself. The silence between us is a good thing. Trust me.”

  “Well, I refuse to sit here in silence with nothing but my thoughts for company,” she said tightly, clearly frustrated with him. “So it seems you’ll have to talk to me, after all.”

  Lifting his lashes, he sent her a cautious look. “What exactly do you wish to talk about?”

  “Well, you could tell me about your life.”

  “What about it?” he asked warily. “You already know I’m a soldier. There isn’t much else to it than that.”

  “Of course there is,” she said with the natural streak of persistence that set her so far apart from the other young women he’d known. Most girls Alia’s age were raised to be demure, soft-spoken creatures who were skittish around men. And while she was no doubt gentle, she had been brought up by a father who’d adamantly believed in the equality of the sexes. As a result, the young Reavess was not only a powerful witch, but she was also well-educated and had been encouraged to speak her mind from an early age.

  For instance, she went on to say, holding his gaze, “what is our home like? How long have you been a soldier? How old are you? What are your parents like? Do you see them often?”

  A ragged thread of humorless laughter rumbled up from his chest, and he almost smiled, thinking that she’d found a way to momentarily cool his ardor without even trying. If ever there was a topic to turn him cold, it was the couple who’d sired him. “My home is wherever the Consortium sends me. I’ve been a soldier since I was fifteen… I’m now twenty-eight. And I haven’t had anything to do with my parents in years.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  He could have simply told her the matter was none of her business, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to get the words out. Instead, he said, “Because that’s how they prefer it.”

  “I could do the gentlemanly thing and keep from prying, but my parents always said that I was too curious for my own good. And in case you didn’t notice, I’m not a gentleman,” she added wryly, the heat of her gaze pressing in on him, making his skin go slick beneath his clothes…making his blood go thick. “So I’m going to be rude and pry. In fact, I’m going to demand an explanation.”

  Rhys watched her intently from the corner of his eye, simply not knowing what to make of her. Any other young woman in her position would have been huddled against the far wall in fear, but not Alia. Instead, she sat there on the hard floor of the cave with only a thin blanket from his saddle roll to soften the ground beneath her, her delicate chin propped atop her bent knees, staring at him with bright eyes, while a small smile seemed to be hiding at the corner of her mouth, teasing him with its presence.

  Feeling as if he’d entered a dream state, Rhys suddenly heard himself telling her the story of how his mother, who had hated the dragon clans, had been forced into wedding his father, the heir to one of the most powerful Charteris families that remained in existence. Her father had been a nobleman from one of the dormant ancient bloodlines who’d wanted to infuse some fresh, powerful blood within his family, giving his daughter no choice in her future.

  From the moment they’d said their vows, his parents had been at war. His mother had often said that bedding a Charteris was something that only a whore could enjoy, claiming they were the most savage, primitive creatures she’d ever encountered. She’d endured until she’d become pregnant, providing his father with his heir, and then she’d banned him from her bed.

  When it became clear that Rhys couldn’t fully take the shape of the Charteris’s beloved beast, his father had eventually left, wanting nothing more to do with either of them ever again. Rhys had always been surprised that his father simply hadn’t killed them both. It had been in his ability to do so, even in his nature. And in a way, it might have been kinder. Being left behind with his mother had been a sort of death in itself, as she’d done her best to make the son pay each day for the sins of the men she’d claimed had ruined her life.

  “Why did your father agree to marry her?” Alia asked, when he’d finished giving her the bare bones of the story.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted in a quiet rasp, rolling his shoulder. “I’m sure he had his reasons, but I never knew what they were. It’s a miracle that he avoided killing her in their marriage bed, but then he was reported to have amazing control over his beast.”

  “How would he have killed her?” she asked, a small vee settling between her slender brows at the thought.

  Rhys ground his jaw, wondering why he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut around her. “They fought a lot,” he muttered, reaching over to the pile of small branches he’d collected and tossing another one onto the fire, his tone warning her that it was all the explanation he would give.
>
  “And where did the scars come from?” she asked, her tone exquisitely gentle. “The ones I’ve seen on your back.”

  “My father,” he replied, working to keep his voice even, instead of snarling the words. “Since he couldn’t get me to willingly shift, he thought he could beat the beast out of me. But I was too stubborn.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stared into the flames as he explained. “I think I could have probably completed a full shift, or close to it, as I got older, but I refused to allow it to happen, burying that part of me deep inside, where he couldn’t reach it. I…I didn’t want to be like him, and so I used everything I had to fight it down.”

  She couldn’t even begin to hide her horror as she quietly said, “That must have been incredibly difficult.”

  Rhys shook his head. “I’ve done it for so long now, I don’t even know if I could call the traits forward if I needed to.”

  “But it must be hard,” she murmured, “always fighting that part of yourself.”

  He shrugged, saying, “It’s like second nature now.”

  The words were true, and yet Rhys knew his actions weren’t without consequence. The longer he fought what he was, the colder he became, until it felt as if a hard, thick casing of ice had hardened around his heart. One that had been slowly squeezing the organ to death, until the first time he’d felt the breathtaking warmth of Alia’s smile…and the ice had begun to splinter.

  “And your mother never did anything to stop him?”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “No,” he said around the dark edges of sound. “She didn’t stop him.”

  “I’m sorry they were both so horrible,” she said after a moment, an unmistakable note of sincerity in her husky voice. “It seems so unfair that I had two wonderful parents, and you didn’t even have one.”

  Rhys felt himself go hot around the ears, realizing how pathetic his upbringing must have sounded to someone like Alia, whose father had clearly adored her. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I didn’t need them to care about me, so no harm was done.”