Beyond the Darkness

by Jaime Rush

  His eyes went black, but that was all he could do. It didn’t matter. He backed up and launched himself at the window. In his mind he was cat, crashing through the glass, his murderous glare on Baal. Glass cut him, but he felt nothing beyond his rage. Baal fell back, eyes wide in shock. Cheveyo leapt at him the second he’d gained his balance. His hands clamped around Baal’s throat and he rammed his head against the wall. A picture fell, glass shattering. Rage suffused him the way the heat in the trunk had. He kept slamming Baal against the wall, crashing through the drywall. He spared a glance at Petra, who lay motionless on the bed, her beautiful boobs—breasts—bared. On the rounded flesh of one . . . a bite mark.

  That violation surged through him. A growl of rage blew through and out of him. He covered Baal’s face with his hand, twisted him to the side, and with every ounce of strength shoved him through the broken window. One of the shards cut into Baal’s throat, sending blood spurting over his hand.

  Heaving deep breaths, he let go, and Baal slumped to the floor in a heap. The glass hadn’t hit an artery, but he’d bleed out—the same death that Baal and Yurek would have let him suffer in the trunk.

  He turned and ran to the bed. Petra’s face looked so peaceful that for one breath-stealing moment he thought she was dead. But he could feel the life in her, barely there. He pulled down her sweater and tore the ropes from the bed frame, then unwound her hands and her feet.

  “Petra.” Agony saturated the word.

  God, he’d been here before, holding her and fearing she was dead. Her loose hair spilled over her shoulders in a golden fall. He slid his hand up her neck to feel the pulse point at her throat. As shallow as her life force. Everything inside him fell away, sucked into a giant black hole. She’d given her soul to save him.

  He ran his hands over her face. “Petra.”

  That time it was a whisper, all he could manage. She hadn’t moved, not a tremor to acknowledge that she’d heard him. “Come back to me, babe. Don’t leave.”

  She was no longer the woman he’d loved from afar. She was inside every cell of his body, the light in his soul . . . and she was dying in his arms.

  He turned to Baal, having forgotten him. A dangerous move. Baal was clutching his wound the way he himself had not long ago, trying in vain to stanch the blood, gasping and gurgling.

  Cheveyo released Petra for a moment, searching the room for the keys to the vehicle outside. He found them on the nightstand and scooped them up. He pulled out his phone and called Pope.

  Pope answered, “What the hell do you want now?”

  He blinked in surprise. “Pope? It’s Cheveyo.”

  Silence for a moment. “Is this a trick? Look, Yurek, you won’t get anything more out of me by pretending to be him. Considering that you made sure I knew he was dead, I don’t see the point.”

  “It’s not Yurek. You’re driving my RV, which I call the Tank, and if you open the glove box, you’ll find pictures of Petra and a boy underneath the maps.”

  A few seconds later Pope said, “How . . . ? I saw a picture of you with a hole in your chest. Was it a fake?”

  “Petra healed me, and now she’s dying. Healing mortal wounds sucks everything out of her, infusing her with the injuries. She’s done this too much in recent months. She’s fading fast. Can you heal her?”

  “I will try.”

  Hope surged through him, though it didn’t last long. They were running out of time. He realized what Pope had said first. “You’ve talked to Yurek?”

  “I’ll explain later. I’ll come to you.” A few seconds later, he said, ”I can’t teletransport. Where are you?”

  “I’ve got the keys to the car they used. I’ll meet you in the middle to save time.”

  They coordinated a meeting place and hung up. He hoisted Petra and then turned to Baal on the floor, gasping his dying breath. No way would he survive. Cheveyo tried to remain impartial where his prey was concerned, but he couldn’t, not with Baal. Or with Glouks. “Die a long, painful death, you son of a bitch,” he said, and walked out.

  He set her on the front seat, laying her head on his thigh, then tore out of the driveway. His fingers stroked her cheek as he drove, and he couldn’t stop looking down at her.

  “Stay with me, babe.”

  He remembered hearing a similar plea from her after he’d been shot. If he lost her . . . he would have nothing left inside him. It would melt into a black puddle and seep down a drain.

  She had said she loved him, over and over, her endearments a light in the dark pain and semiconsciousness he’d been in.

  “I love you.”

  The words felt foreign as they rolled off his tongue. He had only said them to his son, though he’d never heard them from his own father. He had loved Petra for as long as he could remember, but voicing those feelings was far different. He cleared his throat, alternately watching the road and her.

  “I love you, Petra.”

  She had brought his humanity alive. Brought his heart alive. That night in Vegas, he had been a man, a lover. For the first time, he’d been something other than a warrior or monster that killed.

  This pain, though, came with being a man. Came with loving. Of all the injuries he’d sustained, this was one he wasn’t sure he could overcome. He searched the highway for the turnoff where he would meet Pope. He might be able to heal wounds . . . but Cheveyo doubted he could raise the soul dead.

  Chapter 20

  This was how being human got you killed, Baal thought. Desire had blinded him, swayed him. He would survive because Yurek had Black Lavender, the miracle gel. He grabbed the curtain and shoved it against the cut at his neck. Pain sliced through him at the pressure.

  He reached down to his pocket, where he kept the phone. Holding it up so he could see it, he hit the button that would dial Yurek.

  “Where are you?” Yurek answered, anger in his voice.

  “At the house.” His voice was weak. “The hunter stabbed me.”

  “The hunter? You said he was near dead. What the hell is going on over there? Are you wholly incompetent?”

  Yurek would be furious when he found out they were both gone. “I don’t know, but . . . whatever she did that drained her, I think it healed him. He cut me. I need the Black Lavender, right away.”

  “Are the girl and the hunter still there?”

  “He took her, drove away in the car. Please, come now.”

  Silence for a moment. “The hunter’s phone was in the car,” Yurek said then. “I’m sure Pope won’t be meeting me now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The phone disconnected. Baal was grateful to have a partner, someone who would help him. He had messed up but he would prove himself.

  Minutes passed, though he had no idea how many. The edges of his vision closed in, though if he blinked, they widened again. He had no saliva to moisten a throat as dry as the land they’d been traveling over lately. He couldn’t hold onto human form any longer. It was too much effort. He felt his body morph to dog. The blood started flowing out again, with the movement and lack of pressure against the cut. He was fading when he heard the bike’s engine outside the broken window. A few seconds later Yurek walked in and paused at the sight of him.

  “Got yourself into a real mess, didn’t you?”

  Baal moved his paw, scraping the floor, pleading.

  Yurek finally walked over and crouched next to him. But he made no move to pull the vial out of his pocket. “I’d like to know just how she got you to give in. You’re in no shape to tell me, though.” He stood again and finally dug in his pocket. Not the vial in his hand. The Sinthe. “You have outlived your usefulness, Glouk.”

  Baal shook his head, wishing for the strength to become human, to beg for his life. He whimpered instead, all he could do.

  Yurek pointed the gold weapon at him. The white beam shot out, cutting into him. Not a quick shot like he’d done to the hunter. Yurek held it on him, and it felt as though it were setting him on fire.

 
“I hate to use up my juice, but I can’t leave your body here, and I have no way to get you to the finestra. I’ll have to disintegrate you.”

  He smelled burning flesh. Agony. Smoke. In a blinding flash it was over.

  Cheveyo saw the Tank up ahead, pulling behind the closed fruit stand. He looked down at Petra, still out but breathing softly. He parked on the other side of the Tank so that anyone driving past wouldn’t see the car. Pope was already out the side door, running toward the car. Cheveyo swore he saw fear and concern in his expression.

  “Open the passenger door!” he called as Pope approached.

  Pope did, taking in Petra’s fetal position. “I can barely feel her Essence. I get no emotions from her at all.”

  “Pull her out. I’ll come around and get her.” Pope had her in his arms by the time Cheveyo came around, so he led the way into the Tank. “Here, on the couch.”

  Pope laid her down gently, his gaze on her, eyebrows furrowed.

  Cheveyo crouched next to her, taking her hand in his. “Save her,” he whispered, hardly recognizing that raw voice as his own.

  He’d never felt so helpless. He was a warrior, not a healer. No doctor could help her. He knelt down beside her, out of the way. Pope’s large hand hovered over her as though he were looking for something. His mouth turned to a frown. “I have only healed physical wounds. This is a psychic wound.” He met Cheveyo’s gaze. “I’ll try. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Baal bit her. Here.” He waved his hand over where the bite mark was. “The son of a bitch bit her. And I couldn’t stop him. Now I can’t save her.”

  “Put your hand here.” Pope placed his hand above her upper chest. “I don’t know why, but I think it might help to add your energy to mine.”

  Dried blood lined the crevices of Cheveyo’s hand, where he had put it on his wound. He felt . . . something. A sense of peace. Of her. They were connected by blood and by psychic bond. The night they’d sanctified the knife, when he’d cut his hand as well, she’d pressed hers to his, mixing their blood.

  Now I’m yours, too.

  He sank into the connection, closing his eyes and swimming through the ether of her soul. Always, he felt her, her joy, pain, whatever she was experiencing. Like Pope had said, now there was nothing except remnants of peace. His heart crashed. She was gone.

  “Don’t give up yet,” Pope said, obviously picking up his despair.

  Cheveyo sank into her again, pressing his forehead against her side. He floated like a small bubble in a huge pool of water. Searching for signs of life. Of her.

  Petra. Where are you?

  In the distance, a glow caught his eye. He swam toward it. It seemed to take forever. Finally it came into focus: a golden staircase that curved skyward. Standing midway up was a woman in a long flowing dress.

  Petra.

  She was faced away from him, her hands on the railing as she lifted her foot to the next step. He moved closer. The atmosphere was like water, making it hard to navigate.

  “Petra.” The word wasn’t audible, not in a normal sense. He didn’t think he even opened his mouth.

  She turned, and her ethereal beauty stunned him. She was the source of the glow he’d seen. Her hair held a golden sheen, and her eyes were so blue they almost hurt to look at. Her face transformed into a smile. “Cheveyo.” Her smile faded. “What are you doing here? You’re not . . .”

  “Dead? No. And neither are you.”

  He made it to the base of the staircase, standing several steps below her, leaving her feet at his eye level. He tried to climb higher but his legs wouldn’t move. He reached up to her, but it felt as though his body would break apart if he moved too close. “Come here to me.”

  “I can’t. I have to keep going.” She gestured to the steps above her.

  “They don’t lead anywhere. They disappear just above you.”

  She looked and then nodded, that beatific smile still in place. “It’s like those cool puddle mirages on the road, only opposite. As soon as I get to the top of those steps, more appear.” She took another step to show him, and one more tread appeared. “See.”

  His throat tightened. “Don’t go any farther.” He tried to follow one step up, but the tearing sensation increased. A sense of fear tightened inside him.

  She, however, looked at peace. “I have to.”

  “Who says?”

  “I can’t explain it, but it’s just something I know.” She touched the center of her chest. “Here.”

  He reached as far as he could, gasping at the pain of the tearing, pushing against it, grabbing onto her hand. It felt strange, more like a tingling energy in the shape of a hand. “Why did you save me? You knew you’d put your life on the line.”

  She tilted her head, looking genuinely puzzled. “I can’t remember what happened down there. It’s fading away with every step I take.”

  “But you know who I am.”

  Her smile was so angelic, it gripped his chest. “I’ve always known you, love.”

  Even though he wasn’t in physical form, his reactions felt physical. Those words, and the soft way she’d said them, actually brought tears to his eyes. “Stay with me. Please.”

  Her smile faded. “I can’t.”

  “I’m not letting you go.” He tightened his grip on her hand.

  “You have to. It’s time.”

  “I love you, Petra. It’s not time, dammit. I was supposed to die, not you.” He lifted his face to look beyond her. “I was supposed to die! It was my time! Take me. Me!”

  Silence throbbed through him. It was no good. He couldn’t talk his way out of this. So he would act. He lunged for her, his arms wide.

  The tearing . . . it hurt, like his soul being torn from his body. He felt her in his arms for a second. Closed them around her. A blinding light knocked him back, and he fell and fell without landing. He saw nothing but shards of brilliance. Then nothing. Nothing at all.

  Petra came to consciousness a little at a time. Being in her body felt strange at first, which was odd in itself, since it was, after all, her body. She was hyperaware of her breathing, and then of the energy flowing through her, the way Cheveyo had shown her. She felt a soft mattress beneath her. The scents she smelled were familiar and comforting. She breathed them in. Sage, before it was burnt. Cheveyo. She smiled at the thought of him.

  Cheveyo.

  His name jolted her heart. He had almost died. Where was he? Where was she? Those questions made her open her eyes. Relief swept through her. He was the first thing she saw, lying on his back, face turned toward her. He was bare-chested, his hair lying on his cheek.

  “You’re awake.”

  Not Cheveyo’s voice. She lurched up, getting dizzy from the sudden movement, frantically searching for . . . what? Danger.

  Pope pushed up from the chair he’d been sitting in, setting aside a magazine as he did so.

  She exhaled, releasing the adrenaline surge. “Pope.”

  He smiled, coming up to the side of the bed. “You’re feeling all right?”

  “I . . . I don’t know exactly. I feel weird.” She patted her hands down her body, still in the sweater and pants she’d had on . . . that day? Then she looked around. She was in the cabin, in the master bedroom. “But I’m okay, I think.” She turned to look at Cheveyo. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t sensed her awakening. “Is he . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. When you died, he—”

  She jerked her gaze back to Pope. “When I died? Died?”

  “You were fading fast. He was connected to you psychically. I felt your life force fade completely. Every muscle in his body contracted. He lunged forward, then collapsed. He’s been out ever since; you both have. I brought you here, but I wasn’t sure if your souls were even in your bodies.” He looked at Cheveyo. “I’m still not, as far as he’s concerned.”

  She turned back to Cheveyo, her chest opening at what his words meant. “I don’t remember anything. No tunnel or white light or anything.” Her voice drop
ped to a whisper. “He brought me back from death’s door.” Somehow she knew that. She knelt next to him, her hand on the round weal where that horrible hole had been. “Now I’ll bring him back.” She started kissing his face, his temples, eyes, the bridge of his cheeks.

  He didn’t come back as gently as she had. He lurched up, his eyes wide and terrified, body stiff. She fell back from his movement. He sucked in great, deep breaths, taking in the room with wild eyes, Pope, and then her.

  She put her hand on his leg. “It’s okay. You’re home. Safe.”

  He jerked her against him without warning, his hands splayed on her back, crushing her against his chest. His silver jaguar pendant pressed into her skin, but she didn’t care. She held him as tightly, her fingers threading into his hair.

  Cheveyo held onto her like that for a full minute before letting go. He ran the back of his hand along her cheek, taking her in as though he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

  She laughed softly. “Are you all right?”

  He looked at Pope. “You saved her.”

  Pope stood there awkwardly crossing his arms and then uncrossing them. “I didn’t save her. You did. And I almost lost you both.”

  That troubled him. She saw the lines on his face, lines she’d never seen before. He always looked ageless, his pale skin smooth. Now, though, he took them in and smiled, a real smile.

  “You’re beginning to feel, Pope,” she said in wonder.

  “I think I have always had feelings, but they were deeply buried. Being with you, feeling what you feel, has awakened them. I find it easier not to have them, quite honestly. The last day has been nerve-wracking.”

  “Last day?” Cheveyo asked, running his hand back through his hair. “When did everything happen? How long was I asleep?”

  “You’ve both been asleep since she died and you went after her. That was yesterday. It is now the next morning.”

  She died. Those words rolled through her like a wave. She had died, hadn’t she? She touched Cheveyo’s arm. “You went after me?”