by Ryals, R. K.
"It's not her, Dayton. Understand? It's not her," he said firmly, his eyes glued to mine. "Do you know the story of Sodom and Gomorrah in the Bible?
I nodded, my head jerking as the woman whispered my name again. Mom. She was looking for me. Mom was looking for me.
Marcas pulled on my chin. He was leaving bruises on my face, but he didn't relax his grip.
"Sodom and Gomorrah were sinful cities destroyed by fire and brimstone. Lot was there with his wife. She wasn't supposed to look back, remember? If she did, she'd be turned into a pillar of salt. It's not your mother, Day. It's fire. Nothing more. Don't look back."
Tears slid down my cheeks, gliding over Marcas' hand as he held me, the contact steadfast and sure, and I clung fast to his touch. His fingers were a lifeline. Each time my name was called using my mother's voice, I felt my heart break. Never before had I considered curiosity a human weakness, but now . . . now it was more than a weakness. It was a battle for control. I wanted more than anything to turn around.
"Dayton . . . I need you," my mother pleaded.
There were tears in her voice. It was my undoing. Marcas took my face in both of his hands, and I held fast to his wrists as he looked at me, his eyes shining.
"It's not her."
He repeated it over and over again, his eyes on mine.
"Dayton," my mother called.
And then she screamed. It was an agonizing scream, the stark, raving mad kind that only came from fear, the kind that took my world and reversed it because the only thing I wanted to do was save her.
I fought Marcas then, pulling desperately at his wrists as my mother screamed over and over again, her panic seeping into every pore of my body. It tore me apart, and I fought.
Distantly, I knew I was hurting Marcas. His body had not been healed the same way mine had, but my mother's screams were all consuming. There was something about hearing this woman I loved unconditionally being wounded. It destroyed a part of me. It didn't matter that she wasn't real. She sounded real. She sounded so damn real.
Marcas' grip was firm, and he forced my eyes to his.
"Be still," he said, repeating the same words I'd uttered to him earlier. "Be still. I'm here. "
I quit thrashing and sobbed. I still hurt from the injuries I'd received in the white hot wasteland, but the devastation in my heart was so much more painful than the wounds could ever be. The screaming would not cease. She screamed and she screamed, this woman who was not my mother but who sounded so much like her.
"It's not her," Marcas whispered.
His face was close now, his nose just touching mine, his hands still clutching my face.
"It's not her."
Her screams were louder, more persistent, and she sobbed my name.
"Dayton . . . Dayton."
Fear and shame gripped me. My mother had died because Damon believed I held the key to his redemption. She had died. I had not been able to save her then, and I would not be able to save her now.
"It's not her," Marcas repeated as the screams grew so loud my ears began to ring.
There was no escaping the sound, no escaping the way my heart rate picked up as the screams grew nearer. She was coming, and she needed me. Marcas' hands became a vice on my face.
"Don't move, Dayton! Do you understand me? It's not her."
And then there was a strange sensation on my skin. It was a soft sensation, familiar, comforting, like fingers being run methodically through my hair and down my back.
"Dayton," my mother whispered, her voice near my ears.
I screamed and thrashed, Marcas' hands the only thing keeping me from bolting upright.
"Oh, my God, Marcas! She's touching me!"
His grip was firm, sure.
"It's not her, Dayton. Look at me. It's not her."
She was touching me! I couldn't see her, but she was touching me! She was rubbing my hair lovingly, and I fought not to reach back and search for her hand.
"Look at me, Dayton."
Marcas was saying my name more than he had ever said it, and I knew he was hoping repeating it would keep me with him. I closed my eyes and concentrated on his touch, on his hands and only his hands. It should have been an awkward moment. I was laying on a patch of grass in Hell in nothing more than a pair of blue jeans and a pink bra while covered in cuts and abrasions with Marcas nose to nose with me, his hands on my face and his words working to drown out the lulling tones of my mother's voice.
"It's not her," he said again, his thumbs massaging my cheeks.
My grip on his wrists tightened, and I focused on his voice, letting the deep sound move through me, calming me, anchoring me. My eyes opened, and I stared into his eyes, my gaze searching his.
"It's not her," he breathed.
I nodded against his palms just as a shadow fell over his shoulder. My gaze followed it, and I tensed.
"Marcas," I murmured, my voice small.
He turned, his gaze landing on the Demons behind him. There were three Demons to be exact, each a minion of Lilith's and Lucifer, small troll-like creatures we had fought once in Petra. They were lesser demons, but without our powers, that didn't mean much.
"Shit," Marcas spat, his hands still on my face.
I could feel my mother's phantom fingers roaming my hair, my back, her voice more persistent now as the Demons behind Marcas grinned. A sword appeared in the grass between Marcas and I, and he looked down at it warily. I had seen Marcas handle weapons before. Because of his powers, he didn't need them, but I knew he knew how to use them.
Marcas' eyes found mine, and I knew by his expression what Lucifer was doing. He had found a way to take Marcas away from me. He wanted me vulnerable, wanted me to make the fatal mistake of looking for my mother.
Out of nowhere, a troll-like claw flew at us, embedding itself in my leg, and I screamed as it dug itself into my flesh. Marcas roared, grabbing the sword before rolling away from me just long enough to lash out at the Demon. He managed to nick the troll, and the creature retreated before advancing once more.
I was in pain, my leg aching, and I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. There was a soothing hum then, a crooning, low sound as my mother's voice moved over me.
"Let me fix that," she said, and I let the tears fall, every memory I'd ever had of my mother's healing hands smoothing over injuries, her lips kissing hurts that no doctor could fix, washing over me.
"Dayton," she breathed, and I closed my eyes.
Marcas' hands were suddenly on my face again.
"Don't look. No matter what happens, don't look."
The Demon-trolls attacked us again, their claw-like nails flying from their hands to embed themselves around us. I felt one nick my foot, but I managed not to cry out. Marcas had no choice. He had to fight, and I couldn't help him. I couldn't face whatever it was behind me. A pillar of salt, Marcas had said. Lucifer wanted me destroyed. Maybe he believed he could control Marcas if something happened to me and maybe he could, but I needed to be strong.
I opened my eyes to find Marcas gripping the sword as the three Demon-trolls advanced on us, and I pushed him away.
"Fight," I whispered.
He looked down at me.
"Dayton . . . ."
"I won't look back," I promised.
And with that, Marcas threw himself into the fight, deflecting sharp claws as he placed himself between me and the Demon-trolls attacking us.
"Dayton?" my mother asked.
My heart hurt.
"It's not her," I whispered to myself, curling myself into a ball on the ground, my eyes squeezed shut against her whispers and her phantom hands.
"Dayton," she breathed, her voice more insistent, her words clear.
I whimpered, but I didn't move. I used my fingers to dig little crescents into the palm of my opposite hand as my name was repeated over and over again, and I let the pain distract me. There were "whooshing" noises along with the sound of metal clashing against metal, and I prayed
that Marcas was okay.
"Dayton," my mother whispered in my ear.
I jumped.
"No," I told myself firmly. "No."
Marcas grunted, and I tensed, preparing myself to move in the direction of his voice.
"I'm okay," Marcas called out. "Don't move!"
I curled in on myself. I felt useless. Scared, heartbroken, and useless.
"Look at me, Dayton. I need to see your face," my mother pleaded beside me. I swallowed hard and covered my ears with my hands. It didn't help. I could still hear her.
"It's not her," I told myself, my attention on the battle beyond.
There was a loud squeal followed by a shrill, high-pitched scream, and I knew Marcas had disposed of two of the Demons. Still, I didn't move. The presence at my back was unfailing, whispering words no one should know about my past.
"Remember . . . my little warrior. Remember when you broke your collar bone when you were five because you believed you could fly from the kitchen island to the table. Remember what I told you . . ."
I started to hum to myself, drowning out her words. But I remembered. "One day, you will fly. One day, you will soar over the world. One day, you will be a superhero. But for now, let's not attempt destroying the kitchen."
I was laughing and crying now, my eyes squeezed shut so tight I was afraid they'd start to spasm. And then there was a different noise, another squeal, and then silence. I started to move and thought better of it.
"Marcas?" I whispered.
He was suddenly there, his hands helping me to sit up before his palms were on my face, cradling me confidently.
"You can open your eyes now," he said gently.
I looked at him slowly, my eyes sore as the swollen lids opened, and there he was. Marcas, his strong face still pink from the white hot wasteland, his eyes searching mine. He was kneeling in front of me, a cut along his blistered forearm indicating that the fight had not been an easy one. He was breathing hard from the exertion, his brows furrowed with pain he'd never admit he felt. And when he saw me staring he leaned forward, his face near mine, and breathed,
"I'm here."
Chapter 20
When all else fails, look for the light.
~Bezaliel~
My hand came up to cover Marcas' against my face, and I sighed before throwing myself against his chest, my cheek against his grimy, hole-ridden t-shirt. It was the best feeling in the world.
His hands moved to my back, and we didn't move. His heart was beating too fast, his breathing ragged, and I was still hiccupping from shedding too many tears, but it didn't matter. Each ragged exhale, each gulped hiccup, each gritty, sandy feeling against my cheek meant we were alive. We were alive and we were together. It was enough. It was just enough.
And then there was darkness. The second trial was over, and we were headed for the final test. Darkness. There was darkness. But, even in the dark, I could feel Marcas' arms around me. Even in the dark, I could him whisper, "I'm here." And in the shadows, shadows that hid emotions tested and frayed, his heartbeat started to speak to me. It said, "We can do this." And I believed it.
I believed it. I believed it because anything else was unacceptable, and I listened to his heartbeat, listened to its slowing thud, thud, thud until the darkness around us began to lift revealing a scene that had haunted me for most of my life.
We were sitting on brown green grass, the blades dry from a summer that hadn't seen enough rain. I was still in Marcas' arms, and I pulled away from his chest, my hand coming to rest where my cheek had been as I stared at my childhood home sitting beyond the lawn where we rested.
This childhood home was different from the one we had left behind with the others only too recently. This childhood home was lit up, lights shining in windows even though it was midday, the sun hot, the air humid. Mom had always hated the dark. Even in the brightest part of the day, all of the lights in the house were kept on. I shuddered.
Marcas' hands moved to my arms, and he looked into my face.
"You recognize this?" he asked.
There was the sound of a door opening, and I nodded as I watched my father exit the house behind a red-haired ten-year-old child.
Bezaliel pointed at a spot beyond the yard, at the low white clouds in a sky too blue to be anything other than beautiful.
"Dayton?" Marcas asked.
My eyes moved to his face.
"This isn't real," I said. "It's a dream."
Marcas' gaze moved to Bezaliel's figure standing patiently in the backyard, his large hands coming up to cover the little girl's eyes. My eyes.
"Then you know how this one ends," Marcas stated simply.
I could feel the tears pricking the back of my eyes. Yes, I knew how this one ended.
Marcas sighed and stood up, his hand taking mine as he pulled me up next to him, our eyes on the scene.
“You have to close your eyes, Day,” Bezaliel whispered to the child, his hands closing over her face gently but near enough her lashes brushed up against his palms. Butterfly kisses. She fought the urge to giggle.
“What am I looking for?” I whispered next to Marcas, drowning out the little girl's voice as she asked Bezaliel the same question. Marcas glanced at me from the corner of his eye, his hand tightening on mine.
Bezaliel leaned in closer to the girl, his breath fanning her neck as he bent even more to accommodate her height.
“The light, Day. Always look for the light."
The girl squirmed, and I knew what she was thinking. She wanted to please him. She wanted so very badly to please her father, to see whatever it was he wanted her to see, but no matter how hard she squinted against his hands, there was nothing.
“I can’t see anything. There’s only darkness!” the little girl cried.
Bezaliel didn’t move, just grew very still in that scary, statuesque way of his.
“I’m sorry,” the little girl whispered when her father didn't immediately respond.
Bezaliel didn’t remove his hands. The silence stretched.
“There is always light in the darkness, Day,” he said suddenly.
I almost jumped as his voice boomed around us, and Marcas pulled me into his side. I clung to his t-shirt.
“You need to learn to look past the dark. If you don’t, it can consume you," Bezaliel told the girl.
That ten-year-old version of me didn't understand him, didn't understand what he wanted her to do. She had been fascinated with his hands instead. Bezaliel's large, glowing hands.
In the scene, those same hands dropped, but he still held her away. The sun was setting behind them, and their shadows loomed large against the ground, his monstrous one looming over her smaller one. The little girl looked close to tears, hunching in on herself as she watched Bezaliel's broad shoulders lift in a sigh.
“Don’t worry, Day. It’s not your time yet,” he said.
His hand came to land gently on her small shoulder. A myriad of emotions flooded the little girl's face. I knew it well. She felt like a failure.
“I never get it right!” she cried, stomping her foot before pouting.
Bezaliel moved around her then, his face stone-like and solemn.
“Day—”
She stomped again anyway. I had always been good at throwing fits as a child.
“Amber always gets everything right. Always!” she whined.
Bezaliel studied the child a moment before kneeling down in front of her.
“Amber is . . . different,” he said slowly, as if carefully weighing his words, “And it’s good that you two aren’t alike. You are special, Day. There’s a fire in you no one else can see. Not yet, but it’s there."
She squinted up at him. I hadn't understood what he meant then, but I did now. If only then I had known Amber and I didn't share the same father. If only then I had known what kind of blood ran through my veins. But I hadn't known, and the ten-year-old version of myself stomped her foot again just as the darkness came.
My hand
tightened on Marcas', and I looked up at his face as the scene changed. The day, so bright before, darkened.
"A storm," I said to Marcas, and he nodded. I think he was aware of my dream. I'm pretty sure he knew as well as I what was about to happen, but there was nothing we could do to stop it.
It was sudden, the rain, and I felt it pelting my bra-clad body unmercifully as the clouds came tumbling one over another—thick, black, and ominous. Lightning flashed in jagged lines across the sky and mud started to slide in large avalanche-like chunks as water piled on top of water. The rain hurt, digging sharply into my skin, and I gritted my teeth.
“Run, Day. Look for the light,” I heard Bezaliel yell to the little girl, but when she turned to look for him, the space behind her was empty. The rain was coming harder, more brutal, like fingers trying to peel away the skin.
“Run. . .” I heard myself whisper to Marcas, but neither of us moved.
The younger version of me was gone, vanished, leaving us in a dream I knew all too well. There was no point in running. The dream always ended the same way.
Mud was suddenly sucking at our feet, and when I held out a hand to look at it, I wasn't surprised to see blood. The rain was too hard, tearing at skin that had already been battered by a cruel sun in a wasteland where we'd been left to bake alive.
In the distance, I heard the younger version of myself screaming for my father. It was only a matter of time now. Marcas opened my hand up with his and entwined our fingers.
"Don't let go," he said.
I nodded as the earth began to tremble beneath our feet, bucking and rolling until fissures began to open up along the ground, widening until a large hole had materialized in front of us. There was nowhere to run.
“Daddy!”
The little girl's sobbing scream echoed throughout the scene, the sound eerie as the earth gave way beneath us, and we fell. It was dark. So very dark, and I held my breath waiting for the end.
In the dream, my father's voice had come to me again begging me to look for the light. But, in this reality, in this messed up version of my nightmare, there was only darkness. And this time, I wasn't alone. This time, Marcas' hand was in mine, and he was following me down to whatever end awaited.