The Better Part of Darkness

by Kelly Gay

  Emma and I had a pact. We always consulted each other before any major decisions were made. It was my way of making sure she felt included. “So … how would you feel if I took a desk job at the station instead of working out in the city?”

  She turned, eyeballing me like I’d sprouted a shiitake mushroom on the tip of my nose. Then she walked over and placed her soft palm on my cheeks and forehead, testing for signs of illness.

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

  She stepped back and put a hand on her hip. “Okay,” she said slowly, “and why would you want to quit your job?”

  I returned her attitude-ridden look. It wasn’t like I was saying I wanted to move to Antarctica. “Because it would be safer that way, and I don’t want you to worry about me.”

  “Mom. If you do that, who’s gonna help Amanda?”

  I blinked. My mouth opened but nothing came out. I’d promised to help Amanda, and I’d also promised myself I’d be a better mom and take a safer job. Two things that couldn’t exactly be accomplished at once. I rubbed my hands down my face and let out a deep breath.

  “You can’t quit now. Amanda needs you.” Em straightened, bent one knee, and cocked her hip, giving me her best superhero pose—hands on hips, chin lifted, and eyes looking off into the distance. “Atlanta needs you. The very world itself might, one day, need you.”

  Despite myself, I laughed. She giggled, blew a wild strand of hair from her eye, and then zipped the bag. When she turned to me, slinging the bag over her shoulder, she shrugged, pleased with her summation and logic. “Plus, Hank would never forgive you if you quit.” She waited by the door.

  I stood, thrown by her reaction. I’d underestimated her, which was an easy thing to do when you didn’t want your kid to grow up. “Maybe after Amanda’s case then,” I said, more to myself.

  “Mom” —she snapped the air a few times, feigning a teenager look and tone—“snap out of it.”

  “Yeah, I’m coming,” I muttered, following her bobbing form and swinging ponytail down the stairs, and wondering why her reaction hurt. Because she’s growing up. What did I expect, her to jump in my arms and cry grateful tears?

  I padded barefoot through the kitchen, down the porch steps, and over the front yard, hurrying to catch up with her before she made it across the street. At the edge of the grass, I caught her around the waist. She squealed in fake protest as I laid several kisses on her cheek and neck. She might pretend to be too old for hugs and kisses, but she loved them just as much as I loved giving them. “Have fun,” I said close to her ear and then let her go. Laughing, she hurried around to the passenger side door.

  Will slid into the truck and shut the door, leaning out of the open window. “We’ll talk later.”

  I really wanted to respond with a “whatever,” but I nodded, reluctant to admit the feelings I still had for him.

  His only intentional crime had been hiding his addiction to black crafting. All the other stuff had been out his control at that point. The real Will never would have made that bet, or cheated on me. And I knew he wasn’t crafting these days. Just like drug abuse or alcoholism, once one knew the symptoms and signs, it was easy to spot a black crafting addict. It left a weak scent of soot on them, like charred pieces left for years in an old, damp fireplace, and it left a trace of smut, of darkness, on a person. It surrounded them like an aura, but it was so faint it was hard to detect if you weren’t looking for it.

  I stepped onto the front lawn, watching them drive down the street until the truck disappeared around the corner. Exhaustion fell over me like a heavy down comforter. It was only late afternoon and already my body wanted to shut down. It had been one hell of a day so far. Maybe with Em gone, I could actually get in a good nap before heading back to Underground later with Hank.

  I made my way back inside the house and up the stairs.

  In my bedroom, I stripped off my clothes and could smell Will everywhere, all over me. It felt good, which surprised me. I thought I’d feel something more along the lines of sadness and grief for what we’d lost, but I only felt comforted by the remnants of his presence.

  Leaving on my underwear, I slipped under the covers, pulling them all around me, and snuggled down deep in the cool sheets.

  Yeah, this was definitely what I needed.

  The hospital morgue.

  Two women were there. One on the cold, narrow table. And the other, a thought or conscience without form, hovering above, looking down at the sight with confusion and mild curiosity. That figure on the table was revolting. Gray, bruised, and beaten. Skull cracked open. Dead.

  She, the one above, tried to remember by what. Was it a baseball bat? A crowbar? An iron staff?

  The woman on the table was naked, covered to her armpits with a white sheet. She was a complete mess, but she hadn’t always been that way … She’d been pretty once. Had liked the shape of her breasts and her long legs. Liked the way her wavy mahogany hair brushed her lower back when she was naked. She liked the dimple when she smiled and the pouty lips that always drew men’s eyes. She’d been happy once.

  Something tugged hard on the consciousness floating above the body, pulling her toward the ceiling. A light was there. But it was far, far away and before it swam shadows, darting in and out of the murkiness. She wondered if she could dodge the shadows without trial and pass into that soft, beckoning light.

  No, no, she couldn’t go. Not yet.

  She couldn’t remember why, but knew there was a reason, a monumental reason, why she couldn’t go.

  Still, the light tugged.

  Others came into the room. She could see their shapes but not their features; only the body on the table remained vivid and clear to her. They spoke, and it sounded as though the voices were underwater. She pulled away from the ceiling to hover closer.

  “Can she be saved? She’s been gone for some time,” the tall figure said. He wore black. Perhaps it was hair, but it could’ve been a hood. She couldn’t tell. His voice, though muffled, was deep and powerful.

  He was somebody. Somehow she knew this.

  “If she can’t, then this won’t hurt her,” the other said. He was swathed in white. Perhaps it was a lab coat or a cloak, but he had no hood. His hair was brown, and he was tall, just not as tall as the other. “But if she can,” he said, “then all our work will be worth it.”

  He pulled the white sheet to her waist, revealing her breasts, her startling injuries, and the bruises on her chest where they’d performed CPR. He turned her wrist, revealing the soft part of her arm. Then he stuck a needle into her vein.

  The dark one smoothed her hair from her forehead, hair that was matted with blood. He whispered to her.

  The light from behind pulled stronger. The shadows dipped and flew closer, crying out in screeching misery, though the volume was dulled by an unseen barrier.

  The dark one looked up at the ceiling abruptly as though he sensed something there, but after a moment he turned his attention back to the woman.

  The consciousness was caught suddenly in a tug of war; the light pulling her upward and the dead woman on the table pulling her down. Panicked, she fought against both.

  “Now, we wait,” the white one said.

  Amid the panic, she still knew she had to go back, had that reason, that thing just on the edge of her memory. And she was afraid of the shadows, afraid they’d get her before she could make it to the light. So she dove toward the body, away from the screams and cries of the shadows and away from the peace of the light.

  And before she lost the sense of being separated, she realized as she melded with her body, that she’d just dove straight into hell.

  She screamed inside.

  Fire. Dear God, she was on fire!

  The rush was so loud and hot, her eardrums felt as though they bled lava. And then the images started, bursting through her damaged, swollen mind. So much pain. Everywhere. She wanted to die, and she would have if she hadn’t already. Death. Murder. Sex. Blood, so much blood.
Dark figures. Torture. Pain. And power. Dark power. It hurt. Hurt because there was light, too, and it battled inside her, tearing her apart, fighting for domination. Good things. Good deeds. Love. Growth. Seeds sprouting through green grass, unfurling and growing into sturdy, ancient trees. Crows cawing endlessly. The drip of water. It was too much, too many images, too quickly. She screamed again.

  And then she was outside in a circular meadow, naked under a full moon. Surrounded. On her knees. And the man in black and the man in white took turns slicing away small pieces of her flesh, like children who dole out portions.

  This piece is mine, that piece is yours. One for me, one for you.

  I shot up into a sitting position on the bed, my heart thumping hard and fast against my rib cage. My fists clenched the sheet, and my eyes were wide open, but unfocused. My lungs burned as adrenaline pumped through my system, tasting like dry iron on my tongue.

  Breathe, Charlie. No big deal. Just breathe.

  Repeating the mantra over and over, I felt the adrenaline finally slow, allowing me to draw in long drafts of air until my lungs didn’t hurt so much.

  Chills erupted all over my skin, the nightmare of my death leaving me feeling cold and clammy. Like a corpse. I might have claimed to be used to it by now, but, honestly, every time I woke, it felt like the first time. The only difference: each time left me more exhausted and weak.

  Relaxing my death grip on the sheet, I scrubbed both hands down my face to stir the blood flow and then rubbed my cold arms for warmth.

  Concentrating on getting warm instead of being picked apart by good and evil allowed my blood pressure to return to some semblance of normalcy.

  Then I closed my eyes, regulated my breathing as Doctor Berk had instructed, and pulled my feet inward until I sat cross-legged on the bed. My wrists rested on my knees. Mostly, I did this to calm down and push back all those images bouncing around my mind.

  When I woke, especially the last few months, the sensation, something akin to strength or power, vibrated through my veins, making me feel as though my whole body hummed just a little. So I banked it, used the meditation to push all that good and evil shit aside and pull up my humanity. Me. Charlie Madigan. That was who I was. Not some weirdo walking dead person whose insides raged every damn night with images of darkness and light.

  Once I had my mind under control, I glanced around my bedroom, drawn to the only light in the dark room. My alarm clock.

  “Damn it!”

  I had just enough time to get dressed and meet Hank for our trip to Underground.

  Ten minutes later I stood in front of the full-length mirror and sighed. Well, this would have to do. My hair was down and messy from the nap, but finger-combing had gotten out the worst of the tangles. I had on the jeans and red V-neck T from earlier. I added faded brown cowgirl boots Bryn had given to me for my birthday last year and put a pair of gold hoops in my earlobes.

  Full-blown makeup had never been my thing, so I washed my face, put on some lotion, let it dry, and then dusted my face with powder, added a little brown eyeliner, went heavy on the black mascara, and then applied some lipstick that matched my shirt. It made my lips look insanely obvious, like an overripe plum. I looked as though I was on the prowl for sex—not exactly what I had pictured wearing to The Bath House. But, the hell with it, maybe I’d get lucky. My reflection frowned back at me. Or not.

  Downstairs, I pulled my old suede jacket from the closet, the faint scent of leather making me breathe in a little deeper. It was tailored to look like a short blazer, but it would hide my firearms, and it was light enough to keep me from overheating. Functional and stylish.

  Headlights from Hank’s car flashed across the front window. I hit the inside light switch to off, turned the porch light on, grabbed my keys off the foyer table, and then slid my weapons into their holsters. I answered the door with one hand and tugged my hair from underneath the jacket with the other.

  Hank’s large form hovered in the doorway, the serious expression on his handsome face going all cocky. “Hey, is Charlie here?”

  I shook my hair out. “Ha, ha. You’re not funny.” I was becoming more and more convinced my daughter was getting her sense of humor from Hank.

  A slow smile lit his face as he looked me up and down. “This may be the first time you’ve ever taken my advice. You look …” He paused, trying to find the right words.

  “Like I just got out of bed?” I pulled the door closed, locked it, and then ushered him off the porch and down the driveway.

  “No … I like it. It’s a good look on you.”

  “It’s not a look. I just woke up. But I did do the lipstick for you, so we’re even about the whole oracle thing.”

  He grabbed his chest and grinned at me over the hood of his shiny black Mercedes coupe. The street lamp highlighted the sparkle in his blue topaz eyes. “For me? You’re the best, Charlie.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said dryly, opening the door and sliding into the supple leather passenger seat.

  My spirits lifted, and the memory of my nightmare quietly slipped into the far recesses of my mind. Thank God for Hank. Thank God I hadn’t been partnered with a stiff. If there was anyone, besides Emma, who could change my mood for the better, it was Hank.

  As soon as he backed out of the driveway and slid the gear into drive, I held out the matches. He grabbed them, holding them in front of the steering wheel so he could watch the road and take a look at the graphics. “Where’d you get these? Because I know you’ve never been there. Veritas is a members-only club. Most people who go to The Bath House, even regulars, don’t know it exists.”

  “Exactly why we should crash the party.”

  He winced. “No crashing. Subtle investigation. Come on, say it with me … Subtle investigaaa— Eh, forget it. Lost cause, I know.” He tossed the matches back to me. “How’d you get them?”

  “Auggie. He gave them to me right before he died. Those guys that attacked us, they had to be the ones supplying the ash. Auggie was seriously spooked. I’d never seen him like that before. He said the drug is made from a Charbydon flower.”

  He grabbed his cell and began texting.

  I stiffened and grabbed the dashboard as his fingers flew over the smooth black keyboard. “I hate when you drive and do that.”

  He smiled without looking at me. “I know.” He finished and then tossed the cell back into the empty cup holder. His speed verged on texting genius. “Research should be able to put together some possibilities. That might narrow things down a bit, give us some idea of where it’s grown, who could be making it.”

  “My money is on the jinn.”

  “Could be. Or could be they’re just the movers, not the source.”

  Hank took a left onto Courtland as I glanced at the digital clock in the console. The Bath House was one street over from Bryn’s apartment above her shop on Mercy Street. But it was past ten now, and Emma would already be asleep. Still, I made sure my cell phone was loud enough to hear in case Bryn called and then I refastened it back on my belt.

  “Oh, yeah, I stopped by the hospital,” Hank said on an afterthought, “to check on Amanda.”

  “You did?” I gave his shoulder a good squeeze.

  He shrugged, and I knew the ego was coming. “I know, I know. I’m just a well-rounded, sensitive guy.” He flicked on the right blinker to turn. “She’s still in a coma, but stable. Just like the others.”

  I, on the other hand, felt horrible for not stopping by the hospital. I’d had every intention, but then there’d been Doctor Berk, stopping by the store, and then making it home in time to get Em off the bus. And, of course, Will had showed up.

  “It’s not like there’s anything you can do for her, Charlie. She wouldn’t even know you’re there. And besides, from what we’re hearing about the ones who have woken up, it’s like being in a constant state of bliss.”

  “Yeah, and now those same people are in a living hell. They can’t function, they’re dying. It’s more than
withdrawal.” I stared at the glittering city lights, frustrated that we couldn’t help those people, that answers weren’t coming fast enough.

  We rode the remainder of the way in silence, and I let my thoughts and gaze drift to the pulsating city, to the people and beings on the sidewalks and crosswalks, in cars and using the buses, entering and exiting shops and offices.

  Atlanta was diverse before the Revelation, but now it was like a living, breathing Jackson Pollock painting; so many shades, so many vibrant colors all jumbled together on an ever-shrinking city canvas. Humans of every kind. Elysians of every race. Charbydons of every ilk. All on display right here beneath the hazy glow of city lights reflected against the night sky. It made me think of a huge cauldron, a witch’s brew where all of us, every ingredient, affected the next. And it boiled and bubbled, always moving, always growing, always needing to be fed and tended.

  There was no denying that I thrived here; loved it here. I was meant to traverse this landscape and interact with its occupants. I was like one of those witches; playing her role, tending to the cauldron, to see that it didn’t grow cold or boil over.

  And if we didn’t find a way to stop ash from spreading we might as well jump right into the pot and call it quits.

  My stomach growled loudly in the quiet containment of the coupe.

  “Let me guess, you didn’t eat dinner again,” Hank said, throwing me a quick parental glance.

  A compliant shrug was all I gave for an answer, choosing to return my attention to the view, wondering if retiring to a desk job was really the right thing to do. Hell, the chief would have a fit. Telling him was going to be just as hard as sitting on Doctor Berk’s plush chair. I chewed the inside of my cheek, but none of the scenarios flitting through my mind were going to help me with the chief.

  Hank found a parking spot near Underground and soon we made our way to Helios Alley.