Brush of Darkness

by Allison Pang

  Her face sobered. “But seriously, Abby. You have enough potential to make a first class DreamWalker. With the right training, you’d be able to slip in and out of the Dreaming at will . . . and not just into your dreams, but others as well.”

  I shuddered, wondering what that might be like for a moment. My lip curled in distaste as visions of accidentally stumbling into someone’s personal porn theater crossed my mind. “Ah. Yeah. You know, I’m not really trying for that sort of thing. Let’s just stick with what will keep me sane.”

  “Suit yourself, but you might change your mind someday.”

  “Not likely.”

  She held out a hand to pull me from the stream, and we slowly ambled back toward my Heart. My gaze slid toward the dark forest behind the house. Brystion had made good on his promise to be scarce and I’d barely seen a sign of him, short of the occasional sound of bells echoing like some distant memory through the trees. The few times we’d run across each other at the Hallows had been polite, if a bit strained. I didn’t usually hang around to listen to him sing, and he avoided flaunting whoever his latest TouchStone was to my face, a fact for which I was utterly grateful.

  Sonja snorted at me and I flushed. “Have a good night. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  I waved at her, watching as she passed back through the Gate, fading away in a slurry of silver. I often wondered how she could manage the CrossRoads directly like that, but I supposed it was just what succubi did.

  I reached out and stroked the Gate of my Heart with a curious finger, the rusted metal flaking into my hand. Physics or not, it still seemed so real here. And as far as confronting my nightmares . . .

  I pushed the thought away, my eyes glancing over at the rocky path that led to the sea. So far I’d managed to stay far enough away from those particular memories, but sometimes it was just easier to not think about them.

  “Always the coward,” I muttered, rubbing my face before shutting the Gate and locking it tight. I didn’t mind leaving it open when I was here, but now that I knew there were things actually wandering around in the Dreaming, I disliked leaving it gaping like that.

  The fact that I might have been locking the incubus inside didn’t bother me so much. He certainly could make his own way through if he wanted to. My gaze drifted over the thick cluster of hemlock behind the garden and the heady taste of jasmine suddenly grew heavy on my tongue. Not one of my flowers, surely. I took a step towards the trees, the scent growing stronger. Tempted, I gave the darkness a wry smile and shook my head. “No games tonight.” And I meant it.

  Besides, the one time I’d actually given in I’d wandered for hours, emerging back at my house richer only by the number of brambles stuck in my hair. I debated mooning the woods, but in the end, I merely entered the house, gently closing the door behind me. And if I thought I caught my name whispered on the breeze, I chose not to acknowledge it.

  Poke.

  Something sharp prodded my back. Bleary, I shifted away from it.

  Poke.

  “Phin, if that’s you, you’d better have a damn good reason for pulling me out of my training.” I yawned the words and attempted to roll over.

  “I thought you might want to know he’s awake again.” The tiny unicorn clambered over my hip.

  “And he won’t go back to sleep for you?”

  “Abby, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have hands. But I do have teeth, so unless you want that delicious ass of yours blemished, I suggest you get your butt out of bed. Little angel wants his mama and Talivar’s out somewhere.”

  I groaned. Some bodyguard. “He had to go back to Faerie for a bit. He should be back in a few hours. What time is it?” I cracked an eye at the clock. Four A.M.

  Shit. “Fine. But I’m not his mama.”

  “You’re the only thing here with tits. Close enough.” Phineas grinned, wriggling under the warmth of the sheets I left behind. “Mmmm . . . cozy,” he sighed, laying his head on the pillow.

  “Don’t push your luck.” I glared at him, gathering my robe around my shoulders. Sure enough, now that I’d managed to pull myself out of the hazy state between awake and Dreaming, I could hear Benjamin’s wailing cry down the hallway. “I’m not sure I get paid enough for this,” I muttered. But who was I kidding? Moira said jump, I jumped. Why should the job stop at a little thing like childcare?

  I padded down the hall, yawning again. “I’m coming, sweetie,” I said, wincing as his voice jumped two notches from “slightly pissy” to “full-on-mega-howl.” Upon entering the room and switching on the nightlight, the reason became evident. Wedged up in one corner of the crib, Benjamin had managed to get one of his limbs wrapped around the bars. The fact that the limb in question was a neatly feathered wing made very little difference to the furious little eyes peering at me from a squinched-up face.

  Angel, indeed. Spitting image of his father.

  Startled by just how much he thrust that chin out like Robert, I tsked at him soothingly, gently extricating the wing without knocking any feathers loose. His volume lowered about two decibels and I picked him up to rest his head on my shoulder. He snuffled, dark hair damp against my neck, his mouth rooting to take hold of my collarbone. “That time again, is it?” I patted his back and covered him with a blanket, starting up what had become a twice nightly ritual of pacing.

  This time Benjamin wasn’t having any of it, though, so I quickly changed his diaper for good measure and then the two of us headed into the kitchen so that I could warm up a bottle. I continued rocking side to side as the pot on the stove began to heat up. The fridge, of course, always had his milk in good supply, though what it was, I wasn’t entirely sure. Moira wouldn’t hear of giving him mortal formula, but I’d never actually seen her carrying a breast pump either. In the end, I supposed it didn’t matter. Whatever it was seemed to keep him healthy and it’s not like I’d even know where to begin to find food for a half-angel/half-fae child anyway. Based on the amount the little booger was going through, I could only imagine his metabolism was higher than a mortal child’s, although his somewhat limited development was troubling. At eight months, a human baby would have been at least starting to wean, and certainly not requiring twice-nightly feedings. On the other hand, human babies couldn’t fly, so maybe the comparison was unfair.

  Two weeks ago, Moira had been called away to the Faery Court to give her testimony about Maurice’s betrayal. Thankfully, I’d been spared that particular requirement, but the offshoot was to stay behind and continue to run things—including the task of being Benjamin’s nanny. Talivar had been happy enough to take the night shift when he was around, but when the infant had sprouted wings a few days ago, the prince had decided it was worth the risk of leaving us behind to tell his sister directly.

  Regardless of what the Protectorate had told me, the knowledge of who was Benjamin’s father wasn’t for public consumption . . . but feathers would be hard to hide for too long.

  Benjamin began to whimper. The bottle was nearly warm now, so I shushed him until it was the right temperature. I retreated into the living room, and curled up on the sofa. He popped his lips at the sight of the bottle and suckled greedily. “Better be careful,” I warned him. “Keep eating like this and you’ll be too heavy to fly.”

  If he heard my words, he studiously ignored them, eyes closing in contentment. “Silly boy,” I murmured, shifting him so that he was crooked in my elbow, my arm on the sofa edge. Now that his needs were fully taken care of, I blinked sleepily myself, just now noticing the burning sand grinding my eyes. “Not yet,” I sighed. “Gotta get you all tucked in first, eh?” I glanced down at the pile of loose papers on the coffee tables and snorted. I turned the lamp to its dimmest setting and grabbed the top few sheets.

  Might as well try to get some work in.

  “Dear Abby . . .”

  I rolled my eyes. Just my luck to be stuck with the same name as the columnist. I couldn’t recall exactly when the first letters started showing up, but sho
rtly after Moira had gotten things squared away upon her return, I began to find them. At first, they’d be randomly slipped under the door of the Midnight Marketplace, or even sometimes at the Pit, but as I tentatively began to answer them (with Moira’s full blessing, of course), they started showing up on my pillow, in my bathroom, taped to the fridge. I drew the line when I found the one in my underwear drawer.

  Or really, Phineas blew a gasket.

  “I don’t mind you having your hobbies,” he’d exploded at me that morning, “but god damn if you could keep them out of your lingerie?”

  Even aside from the fact that he wasn’t actually supposed to be in my underwear, this was one time I agreed with him.

  I formally set up a separate address at the Marketplace, with occasional diversions to the Hallows and made it clear that any letters randomly showing up in my sheets were going to get burned.

  Still, the flow kept on here and there, though how useful my answers were I had no idea.

  I was hoping you could settle a little issue between me and this ghost I’m living with.

  “Not bloody likely,” I muttered.

  I’m a brownie, and I used to work for Mr. Jefferson. Now technically, brownies work until their chosen masters pass on and then we are set free. But in this case, Mr. Jefferson did not fully move into the light and his ghost haunts the place and refuses to let me go . . .

  I groaned, placing the letter on the cushion beside me. I hated these types of questions. Not as much as the TouchStone ones or the star-crossed lover ones, but without knowing both sides of the story, how was I supposed to answer this?

  Even if I meant well, there was no telling what the repercussions would be if I gave them the wrong advice. “Tomorrow. Have to find ghost whisperer, Benjamin. Remind me.”

  Benjamin’s jaw was slack now, the nipple hanging off his lower lip, milk in the corners of his mouth. “Alright, little man. Back to bed with you. And Auntie,” I amended.

  “Here, I’ll take him.” Talivar emerged from the dark kitchen with a quiet grace. The elven prince had finally relaxed his rather minimal dress code of tunics and torcs a few months ago, just as he had relaxed his vigilance. Things had quieted down considerably and although he continued to watch over me, I could tell he was getting bored.

  With a little shopping help from me he had taken casual chic to an entirely new level. Even now in jeans and a black T-shirt, he cut a nice figure in the dim light, his long hair tied back in a loose queue, pointed ears poking between the strands. He still retained the leather eyepatch, though. My threats to glitter it up had been met with a slightly chilly smile, and in the end I’d decided to leave well enough alone.

  “Ah. I didn’t hear you come in.” I peered up at him blearily. “Good trip?”

  He shrugged. “There is much to discuss, but I think it can wait until tomorrow.” His eye fell on the baby, a strange expression ghosting over his face. “Moira wasn’t overly happy to hear about the wings, as you can imagine, but she’ll manage.”

  I grunted, not really sure I cared about anything other than getting back to my bed. Not at this hour, anyway. “When do you think the trial will wrap up?”

  He frowned, gently taking Benjamin from me. The elf cradled his nephew’s head with a careful hand. “Maurice is not being overly cooperative, as we suspected. Moira has given her testimony, but . . .” He hesitated. “Well, the truth of it is our mother is not doing as well as she might. Moira is keeping an eye on her.”

  “Translation: Things are fucked,” I quipped with a sigh. “I already know where this is going.” Visions of raising Benjamin to his college years filled me with a weary sort of resignation. “What are the chances I’ll be seeing Moira again before my Contract is up?”

  He snorted. “Well enough, I’m thinking. The Queen won’t keep her there forever.”

  “Small favors. But I still think we need to tell Robert. Benjamin is his son and however uncomfortable that makes people, he should know. After all,” I said dryly, “who’s going to teach him to fly?”

  Talivar shifted Benjamin to his shoulder and shook his head. “We do not recognize paternal claims in Faerie, Abby. All lineages are drawn through the mother. By that logic, I’m actually more closely related to my nephew than Robert is.”

  “Yeah, I can tell, what with those wings and all,” I muttered. “Still makes no damn sense.”

  “Yes, well, we’re a rather promiscuous bunch. We cannot trust our wives to be faithful, any more than our wives could trust us. At least this way I know my sister’s children are related to me. But my wife?” He shrugged at my raised brow, a wan smile on his lips. “My hypothetical wife, anyway. She could take a hundred lovers over the course of our marriage and I would have no right to gainsay her that.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you? Knowing that you have no real acknowledgement of your own children?”

  He looked down at the baby, his gaze distant. “Children are rare and precious to our kind. We tend not to look too closely at where they come from. And that, I think, is enough for one evening. Or morning, as the case may be,” he noted, glancing at the false dawn through the blinds. “I’ll tend to him now. Hopefully your rest wasn’t disturbed overly much.”

  “Mmmm . . . you’re assuming I like to be awakened by a horn half up my ass.”

  “Probably depends on the horn,” he murmured, an uncharacteristic smirk crossing his face before he slipped back through the kitchen and down the hallway to the baby’s room. I watched him go, rubbing my eyes again. He didn’t have Ion’s blatant sexuality, but there was an ethereal beauty to him, nevertheless.

  A pang of sadness twisted in my gut and I told it to shut the hell up, ambling back to my bedroom to try to catch a few more hours of shut-eye. Today was Katy’s eighteenth birthday, after all, and I had things to do—party plans to set in motion and a werewolf to keep under control. My duties didn’t get put on hold simply because I had a messy private life.

  Phineas was unabashedly drooling on my pillow, his equine mouth half open. “Lovely.” I grimaced, snatching up a spare from the closet. I hunched beneath the blankets, wrapping them partway about my head as though I might shut out the memories.

  The unicorn snuggled closer, making kissy sounds.

  I shoved him away. “You’re an ass. See if I make you any breakfast.”

  “Be still my wounded heart,” he retorted. “However shall I manage without a plate of burned bacon?” There was a snuffling sound and a sigh, and then a miniature chainsaw revving next to my ear.

  Out of a perverse sense of revenge I nudged him with my shoulder. “I’ve got to try to find a ghost whisperer today, if I can. Remind me when you wake me up again.”

  There was a sudden silence. On instinct, I jerked my backside away from him, peering out of my nest to catch him midbite. The unicorn gave me a sour look, curling his upper lip in distain. “Almost got you,” he mumbled, flopping onto his back with his legs spread obscenely. “Just ask Charlie. She’s always talking to dead people.”

  I frowned. I hadn’t spoken to Charlie in quite some time. At least not in anything that didn’t end up being awkwardly . . . awkward. “Charlie as in ‘the girlfriend of the angel who cheated on her with my boss and whose baby I’m taking care of’?”

  “Yeah.” His mouth pursed. “Hmmm . . . yeah, I could see where that might be a problem. Good thing I don’t have to talk to her, though . . . eh?”

  “Nice.” I slouched back down and rearranged the blankets, rolling to the other side to keep my posterior out of range. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

  “Thought you’d have figured that out by now,” he yawned, one eye cocking open to wink at me. “Mine.”

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six
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  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Allison Pang

  Back Cover