Brush of Darkness

by Allison Pang

  She waved me off, hips swaying as she started grooving behind the counter. Good enough.

  Brystion was slouched against the door frame as I shuffled through the storage area. “Having fun holding up that wall?” I breezed past him, averting my eyes from his at the last moment.

  “It’s a living,” he said mildly. “Where’s this office?”

  “Through here.” I led him down the faded hallway, past a small bathroom, to Moira’s office. I hesitated in front of the door, as though I could still see the parchment taped to the frosted glass.

  “Sorry,” I muttered at Brystion. “I don’t usually come in here.” I glanced at him, surprised to see something sympathetic in his eyes. Shaking my head at my foolishness, I hip-checked the door so it clicked open.

  Moira’s office was just how I remembered it. Parchment scrolls were stacked neatly on the desk, framed by feathered quills and bottles of ink. A crystal oil burner was pushed off to one side. “She’s pretty old school,” I said, hitting the switch just inside the door. “And not particularly fond of technology.”

  “So it would appear.” Brystion started nosing around the bookshelves, blowing away the light covering of dust on the bindings. “Nothing that interesting here.” He frowned. “You really think this is where the painting was set?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I know I saw this switch on the wall in it. And who knows when the thing was painted? There wasn’t a date on the corner I saw.” I shrugged. “For all I know it was painted after I got here or ten years ago.”

  He grunted and moved to the other side of the room to inspect some of the Celtic tapestries hanging there. I carefully began to flip through the loose papers on Moira’s desk, setting aside the random inventory statements and property assessments. Something sharp pricked my finger. “Ouch,” I hissed, sucking the tip in reflex.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just cut myself on something. It’s not deep.” I pulled out a loose sheaf of parchment, watching as a pile of glass spilled out from beneath it. The remainder of a picture frame followed suit.

  “What’s that?” Brystion gingerly picked around the glass, removing the tattered black-and-white photo from the shattered frame. We peered at it, our foreheads nearly touching.

  “It’s Moira,” I said. It was obviously from many years ago. She was dressed in traditional Victorian bustle and leg-of-mutton sleeves. Her sharp eyes and pointed ears stared coolly back at us from beneath a fashionable hat. “From the late 1800s, I’d guess. But who’s that?”

  Beside her stood a handsome man, dapper in his livery and top hat. One gloved hand was linked through hers possessively.

  Brystion flipped the photo over. “Maurice and Moira at the pier. March, 1896.” It was written in Moira’s delicate script.

  “Hmmm. Looks like it’s actually a variation of the boardwalk behind the art gallery,” he said.

  “Could be. She’s been here a while. Looks like Maurice was too, whatever happened to him.”

  Brystion shot me a look. “What do you mean?”

  “According to Charlie and Robert, he disappeared not too long before I arrived in Portsmyth. They suspect he and Moira had a falling-out.”

  “That’s a lot of disappearances in a very short time,” the incubus pointed out. “Anyone try to find him?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t even know anything about him really. Just his name.” I glanced back at the picture. “Moira didn’t ever talk about him.”

  He sighed heavily. “As much as I hate to say it, I think we’re going to need to get Robert involved. Things are starting to unravel rather quickly. If we’re going to put all the pieces back together, we should probably let him in on it.”

  I nodded, yawning. “Let’s see if we can find any details about that van first. Then we’ll have something solid to present. And maybe a nap,” I added. “I don’t know about you, but I’m friggin’ tired.”

  “Understandable. Being a long-term TouchStone is hard work.” His face became pensive. “It takes a lot out of mortals—more so for you, though, I think.”

  “Yeah, I’m hungry a lot.”

  He looked at me dubiously. “You’re rather thin, if you ask me.”

  “Way to make a girl feel good, dude. I’ve always been thin. Dancer, remember? But I eat like a pig these days. Hell,” I snorted, “I eat a lot of pig these days.” My stomach rumbled at the thought. “It doesn’t seem to matter much, though; I just can’t seem to keep any weight on.”

  He gave me a troubled smile, tight and hard around the edges. “It’s the danger of being a TouchStone,” he said abruptly. “It’s in your nature to give until there is nothing left.” He stared at me, eyes unblinking, gold shimmer about their edges.

  I felt my cheeks burn. “Ah, can you just wait here a moment? I’m going to go upstairs and get my laptop and then we can try to track down Mighty Movers.” I dashed past him and down the hallway toward the back door without waiting for an answer.

  The unicorn was in my underwear drawer again.

  “Who invited you, anyway?” I picked him up, rescuing him from the pair of hot-pink panties wrapped over his face. “Pervert,” I muttered, ignoring his rather baleful expression when I set him back on the floor. “Go on.” I nudged him away, shutting the drawer with an audible click. As many times as I’d found him in there over the last two days, you’d think I’d have gotten smart and put a lock on it. I’d even moved the underwear to the top drawer, but the damn thing managed to get up there as well.

  He waggled his beard at me and trotted off, before disappearing under the bed. Strange beast, really, but who was I to question? As long as he stayed out of my way, we could manage as roommates for a while. Hell, for all I knew there was a mountain of tiny unicorn poop piled up beneath my box spring, but as long as it didn’t smell I wasn’t going to look too closely.

  “That’s a little forward, don’t you think?”

  I jumped, turning around swiftly to see Brystion leaning against the door frame. He eyed the panties with a sly smile, reaching out to stroke the latch of the door with a suggestive swirl. “I thought I was up here for business purposes. But I suppose there’s business and then there’s business.”

  Stifling the urge to throw the offending garment at him, I tossed it in the corner for the laundry. Too much magical beastie hair. Again. “I told you to wait downstairs.” I gestured back through the doorway, trying for nonchalance. Judging by the expression on his face, I failed completely.

  He shrugged. “Maybe I wanted to see your bedroom.”

  “Well, you’ve seen it now, Hello Kitty underwear and all, so get out.”

  “Tut-tut.” He waggled a finger at me. “Is that any way to talk to your dream lover?”

  “Would-be dream lover,” I reminded him, grabbing my laptop off the dresser. “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to get into my metaphysical pants.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘try harder?’” The smile became a leer and I rolled my eyes. Just my luck to get stuck trying to work with someone who knew he was a walking wet dream. The incubus smirked, but retreated to the kitchen, drifting like a shadow. I pretended not to watch him go and he pretended not to notice my not watching. It wasn’t much of an arrangement, really, but it would have to do for now.

  I set the laptop up at the kitchen table. Not much point in hauling it back downstairs if we were already here. I turned it on and then headed for the fridge as he took a seat. “Want something to drink?”

  He rubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah. What do you have?”

  “Hard to say—I never really know what’s going to be inside. One of the perks of being TouchStone to the Protectorate, I suppose.”

  He stared at me dubiously. “I’m surprised you would risk it. There are a lot of stories about eating enchanted Faery food, you know.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please. It never goes empty, but that’s as far as it goes. If Moira was trying to enchant me with some kind of fo
od Glamour, don’t you think she could do a hell of a lot better than Oscar Mayer for the presentation?”

  A hint of laughter touched the edges of his mouth. “There is that.”

  I snagged him a Coke from the door, popped it open and set it on the table. The happy Windows music jingled at me and I went over and logged in.

  “This might take a few minutes,” I said, pulling up Google to start my search for Mighty Movers. Brystion slid his chair closer to me to peer over my shoulder. “Hmmm. We could have a problem here. Says this moving company has been out of business for at least six months.”

  “Any contact info?” he asked.

  “If I pull up a cached page, yeah. There’s a phone number here. Assuming it’s still connected, maybe they can tell us who they sold the trucks to.”

  “Long shot, but I guess it’s worth trying.”

  I pulled my cell phone out of my purse. I sneaked a glance at him while I waited for the phone to finish dialing. He stared at the laptop with an air of despondency. After a few seconds I got a disconnected message and I sighed. “No go.”

  He grunted. “That’s that. Suppose we better get a hold of Robert and see if he’s got any leads on his end.”

  “Yeah.” We sat in silence for the next few minutes, lost in our respective thoughts. I assumed he would have gotten up at that point, but instead he merely sat there, sipping his soda. Suddenly agitated at the quiet, I got up and filled the kettle with water for tea.

  “Such strange things,” he murmured finally, running his fingers along the edge of the laptop screen.

  “What, you don’t have computers in the Pornographic Land of Nod?”

  He gave me a withering stare. “I meant technology in general, actually. It’s kind of taken the fun out of the job, you might say.”

  “Um . . . Dream sex isn’t fun?” I frowned. “Then what’s the point?”

  “In the old days it was different. People used their imaginations—books, poetry, art—every night was something new. But now . . .” The corner of his mouth curled into a self-deprecating smirk. “I mean, how many times can you become Captain Jack Sparrow without feeling at least a little jaded?”

  “Come again?”

  “That would be the point,” he agreed. “Ah, yes, I’d forgotten we haven’t gotten that far in our little bedroom games.” I bristled, but the look in his eyes said that he hadn’t forgotten a damn thing.

  Tracing a circle on the table, he sighed. “As a race, incubi’s primary job is to drink energy from mortals. Such energy can be used for sustenance or even the creation of another incubus, if there’s enough there. In return, we provide sexual satisfaction through fantasy. With the advent of technology, the fantasy takes a dip. There’s no originality in dreams anymore. It is . . . unfulfilling.”

  “So you change your appearance to become the fantasy, then?”

  “Of course.” His eyes turned black and he shuddered, skin rippling beneath his clothes. I blinked. Captain Jack Sparrow was sitting in my kitchen. Fucking Jack Sparrow!

  “Holy crap!” I was starting to like this fantasy thing a whole lot more.

  His face became resigned and I almost felt sorry for him. He gave another twitch, and the pirate’s features melted away, becoming Brystion’s again. “It’s harder to do that in the real world,” he admitted, “but if you’re good enough at it . . .”

  “You’re that good, then?”

  “Obviously.”

  “So what does this have to do with me?”

  “Those images are without substance. They take no effort for Dreamers to come up with, therefore there is no sustenance behind them. Such a feeding is empty . . . hollow.” He reached out to take my hand as I turned to get the kettle. “It’s been a long time since I’ve met such a vivid Dreamer, Abby.” His thumb rolled over my palm, making me shiver. “And I’m so very, very hungry.” There was something feral in his eyes as he spoke, and it sparked an answering hunger deep in my belly.

  His nostrils flared, like he’d caught the scent of prey.

  Me.

  I pulled away, trying not to let my agitation show. He let me go, but his eyes followed me as I moved through the kitchen, steeping my tea, getting out the sugar. “Anyone ever tell you it’s hard to concentrate when you’re doing that?”

  “It’s what I am. Why should I change simply because it makes you uncomfortable?”

  I had no answer for that. After all, wasn’t I the advocate for being true to one’s self? I tried changing the subject. “So, if you can change your appearance based on a fantasy, is that what you really look like?”

  He stiffened. “No. I don’t think you’d particularly like my true form, Abby. At the very least I doubt you would be so comfortable as to have me in your kitchen.”

  I nearly laughed. Clearly he had no idea just how formidable that face of his was. Or maybe he did. “So is that just a Glamour or whatever? You know, an illusion?”

  “No. The change is complete—as complete as I can make it, anyway.”

  “I didn’t know. I can’t say I’ve seen many incubi in the Marketplace.”

  “We have no real reason to go there. Like the rest of the OtherFolk, we cannot exist here long without a TouchStone. Only mortals can give us what we need.” His voice became soft.

  “What happened to your last one?” I asked abruptly. To hell with not probing. “Melanie said she ran off with the drummer of your band. Is that true?”

  His eyes hardened. “Yes. But I suspect she had a reason.”

  “That makes no sense,” I mused. “I thought mortals couldn’t break the Contract.”

  “It depends on how it’s written. And besides, I’m the one who broke it.”

  I did a double take. “You did? But why?”

  He was quiet for a long moment and then scowled at me. “I cheated on her,” he said finally. “But not in the way you’re thinking.”

  “Like you’d know that.” My heart sank at his words, but I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like I could possibly have expected anything better from a daemon.

  “I might,” he retorted softly. “Walking the Heart of a Dreamer tends to show me a number of things, even when the Dreamer might just as readily forget them.”

  My hackles rose at his assumption. “Bullshit.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I said bullshit. You don’t get to just waltz in here acting like you know me, simply because you spent . . . what? A few hours in my dreams? You know nothing about me, incubus.” I closed the laptop and slid it away. “You drop all this information about me, that you get to see my Heart, my dreams, my nightmares. Hell,” I snorted, “you’ve practically seen me naked, and you’ve been pawing at me like I’m your own private call girl. What gives you the right?” I glared at him, strangely indignant for the unknown woman. “Why did you cheat on her?”

  “I had to.” He lurched to his feet, pacing around the kitchen like a caged lion. “I loved her, in my own way.”

  “Loved?”

  “Is that so hard to imagine?” His voice grew husky for a moment, but his eyes were obsidian when he glanced over at me. Grief, betrayal, confusion—all of it was written there. I dropped my gaze.

  “I never thought about it. You’re . . . daemonic.” A flash of guilt tightened my throat as he flinched beneath my words.

  “Does that make me any less alive? Any less feeling? A denizen of the Dark Path is not always evil, just like one of the Light may not always be good. Your own race is certainly proof enough of that.” His dark hair had fallen over his face, hiding him in shadow. I ached to push it back. “I cannot change what I am, Abby, no more than you can change what you are. No more than Elizabeth could change what she was.” He sighed, slumping down in the seat beside me. “Or what she wasn’t.”

  Realization snapped like a rubber band to my face. “She wasn’t a Dreamer, was she?”

  “No. I was starving. And she . . . she tried so hard, but it just wasn’t enough.”

  My m
outh twitched despite myself. “High-maintenance incubus, eh? Figures. So then what? You just flounced around looking for other Dreamers?”

  “Of course not. I was very discreet.”

  “Not discreet enough, apparently,” I pointed out.

  “Yes. And when it became apparent that it wasn’t going to work out, I let her go.” There was no doubt in my mind that there was a hell of a lot more to this story than he was letting on, but maybe I’d pressed him hard enough. Then again . . .

  “So, uh, do you usually Contract your feedings through your TouchStones?”

  A wry sort of amusement crossed his face. “Yes. Interested in the job?”

  “No. Just curious.” A flush prickled over my cheeks as he raised a brow. “What’s involved?”

  “Trade secret.” He winked. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Pity.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “It would be. I bet you’d be good at it, though.” He’d moved closer, his leg brushing mine. “Want to find out?” One hand slid over my wrist, thumb stroking the trembling pulse that hammered through my veins.

  I stared at him, frozen. Was he serious? Bluffing? Did it matter? I searched his face, but if I expected a direct answer it wasn’t forthcoming.

  The question hovered between us, crushed into the minute space of our breathing. “Oh, what the hell.” And I kissed him.

  Desire filled my belly, electric and alive. Warm . . . so warm, so goddamned hot. Whatever I thought I’d be doing flew out the window the moment his tongue darted into my mouth. No sex? What the fuck had I been thinking? I moaned softly, low in my throat, as his hand came up, stroked my face, gripped my chin. “So . . . different,” I gasped, felt his mouth smile against mine.

  “Yes,” he growled, nipping at my lower lip before pulling back. His eyes were ringed with gold now, thrumming with desire. His mouth brushed over my cheek, his hand sliding to the back of my head. “Because you have chosen this . . . chosen me. I cannot help but respond.” He suckled on my ear.