Darkness Bound (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  He owed kalum big time.

  “I told you it was fine,” Jacqueline said, smiling lazily at him over her shoulder. “You should listen to everything I say from now on. Clearly I’m always right.”

  “Oh, really?” Equal parts relieved and amused, he wriggled his fingers into the curve of her waist, and she shrieked.

  “No tickling! I hate tickling!” She leapt from the bed, but he was faster. He caught her up in his arms before she could take two steps, and held her tight against his chest.

  “I bet it’s one of those things you say you don’t like, but you actually love,” he teased, loving her weight and warmth in his arms. “Like spanking.”

  “Or like you,” she said, her head tilted down, gazing up at him from beneath her lashes.

  It hit him like a wrecking ball in the chest. He froze. His heart stuttered to a dead stop.

  Or like you.

  She was toying with him. She was incoherent. She was just teasing.

  Right?

  She can’t lie. She can’t lie.

  Kalum’s words started up a broken-record repetition inside his mind again, and he had to force himself to draw breath into his lungs or he’d pass out cold with her in his arms.

  “I want to hear about your nickname!” she insisted, winding her arms around his neck, and resting her head against his shoulder, acting as if nothing had just happened at all. Acting as if his entire universe hadn’t slid off the edge of existence and exploded in space.

  “Ah . . . I . . . it’s not very . . .” Hawk swallowed, blinking past his disbelief and the blind, aching hope that had stunned him like a two-fisted punch.

  “Tell me.” She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

  He closed his eyes briefly, willing himself calm. Willing the room to stop spinning madly. “It’s easier if I show you,” he said, then gently set her on her feet.

  He pulled on a pair of pants, selected a clean chemise for her from the dresser, and helped her into it. Then, threading her fingers through his, he stepped out onto to the porch that surrounded the room, leaned against the wood railing, and looked out over the rainforest, training his eyes to the upper canopy and emergent far above.

  When she looked up at him, questioning, he said, “Wait a moment.”

  She watched him, waiting, while he scanned the sky.

  They stood in silence for several minutes. Then he saw it.

  A harpy eagle.

  His Gift was effective with any kind of bird, from hummer to parrot to toucan, but the harpy eagle was his favorite. The largest and most powerful of the raptors of the Americas, it was named after the harpies of ancient Greek mythology, the wind spirits that took the dead to Hades and were said to have the body of an eagle and the face of a woman.

  In Portuguese, the eagle was called gavião-real. Royal hawk.

  It soared far above, a black-and-white blur against vivid blue, hunting. Hawk wrapped his hand tightly around Jacqueline’s. “Close your eyes.”

  She did. Then Hawk released himself from his body, and because their hands were grasped, he was able to take Jacqueline along for the ride.

  A rushing; the sensation of gravity pulling in the wrong direction, a roaring in his ears, and then it was done.

  The rainforest lay vast and sparkling beneath them, carpeting the landscape for mile upon endless emerald mile. He wheeled to the right, tucked his wings against his body and fell into a sharp dive, relishing the wind on his face, seeing every dewdrop on every leaf, the air scented of earth and rain and river. Jack was with him, tethered by the connection of their hands, flesh upon flesh, conducting magic through their veins, and he felt her exhilaration and shock as if it were his own.

  She felt no fear. Only pure, astonished delight. With a cry of joy that pierced the morning sky, Hawk opened his wings and flew higher.

  He rolled. He banked and wheeled and soared. He flew high and low, grazing the treetops, skimming the dark, serpentine Rio Negro—spotting the mirror flash of piranha and the pale ghosts of river dolphins below—then coasted higher on a warm updraft. On the other side of the rise, the Earth fell away abruptly, and there was only wind and air and sky, blinding blue. He flew higher still, and below the land curved gently away in either direction.

  He’d never shared this with another living soul.

  For another thirty minutes he played, showing her all his favorite spots—the small caves behind the waterfall, all the hidden grottos and pools and glens he haunted in his wild and lonely youth—until by the end of it, his wings ached and his hunger had grown to a sharp, gnawing thing, demanding to be sated.

  He didn’t think he’d subject Jacqueline to that particular activity, so he released the bird and came rushing back into his body, as did she into hers, both where they’d left them, standing empty and motionless on the porch in dappled morning sunlight.

  Hawk turned to her after the final jolt of reconnection, just in time to watch her fall flat on her behind on the floor.

  “Oh!” she said breathlessly, stunned and round-eyed, her legs sticking straight out in front of her and her hands pressed to either side of her head. “Oh!”

  He knelt beside her, cupped his hand around the back of her neck. “Are you all right?”

  In answer, she began to laugh.

  “That was—amazing! Hawk! Oh my God!”

  “I take it you enjoyed yourself,” he said, feeling enormously happy and more than a little smug. She was staring at him in a way that made him want to stomp around the room, beating on his puffed-out chest with his fists.

  “I can’t believe it! How do you do it? What do you call it?”

  “I do it just by concentrating, basically. I’ve always had this fascination with birds, and one day when I was twelve years old I was sitting in a fig tree, staring at this beautiful nighthawk on a branch above me, when suddenly I was . . . inside its mind. I saw through its eyes, like we just did with the harpy eagle. Only it shocked me so much I fell out of the tree and landed on my head. Fortunately, my head has the consistency of a rock, so I wasn’t hurt.” He laughed, helping Jacqueline to her feet. “I ran back into the colony screaming, ‘Hawk! Hawk!’ because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and from then on everyone started calling me Hawk. After that, I learned to control it in secret, experimenting with every kind of bird. There isn’t a name for it, or at least if there is I don’t know it. There hasn’t ever been another one who could do it in the tribe’s history.”

  “In secret? Why?”

  He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “Because I hate politics, that’s why. If word got out that I had this unusual Gift, I’d be expected to challenge the Alpha for his position at the top of the food chain. It’s bad enough I have to live this restricted life . . . I could never be in charge of forcing everyone else to. And that’s what being an Alpha’s all about. They put the ‘dick’ in dictator.”

  She studied his face for a moment, her big blue eyes shining with something like pride. “Melder,” she pronounced. “That’s what you should call it. You’re a Melder.”

  “Melder.” He tried it out, unsure.

  “A Mind Melder! Yes!” She clapped and hopped in place, gleeful as a child on holiday. “Can you only do it with birds? What about other animals? What about with—” She broke off.

  “What is it?”

  “Does . . . does this mean you can get inside my mind?”

  Strange, but she looked almost hopeful. He drew her into the circle of his arms and rested his chin atop her head. “No. I’ve tried it with different animals, and people, too, but I only have the connection with birds. Though I admit being able to read your mind is something I’d love to be able to do.”

  She tilted her head up and gazed at him, eyes wide. “You can ask me anything, Hawk,” she said softly. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”<
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  A terrible thought took seed. It sank its roots deep into the darkest, most selfish parts of him, grabbing hold with greedy claws. He pushed it back, but it held on, stubborn as a case of hiccups.

  She can’t lie. Grow some balls and find out the truth. Ask the three most important questions that will ever pass your lips:

  Do you love me? Will you be mine? Will you turn your back on everything you used to know, and run away with me?

  What if she said no? Even more terrifying . . . what if she said yes?

  Fighting himself, he turned his head away, stared out into the sea of restless green.

  She rested her head on his bare chest. “Do you get tired, after?”

  Hawk smiled. “After?”

  “Not after that, gutter mind,” she said, stifling a yawn. “After the flying thing. Melding.”

  “Oh.” He thought about it. “Not particularly. Why? Do you feel tired?”

  “Mmm. It’s a side effect of adrenaline overloads. Afterward I get sleepy.”

  He whispered in her ear, “You sure it’s adrenaline? I think maybe I’m just too hot for you to handle, Red. My charisma alone could suck all the energy from the sun, and that’s not even getting into how much of a stud I am in the sack.”

  She bent down and nipped his nipple with her teeth.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh, did you feel that?” she said, looking up at him. “I thought maybe your giant ego would be in the way.”

  “All right, you.” He bent his knees, lifted her up in his arms, swung around, and carried her back to the bed. “Time for a nap. But don’t think you’re going to be sleeping for too long, because I have plans.”

  “Promises, promises,” she said, yawning again.

  He laid her gently down and crawled in beside her, not bothering with the covers, drawing her against his chest so she was facing away, their legs entangled.

  “Who knew the big, bad, egomaniacal wolf would be such a cuddler?” she said, sighing with what he hoped was contentment.

  “I think we’ve already established I’m a big, bad, egomaniacal cat.”

  “Hmmm.” She wriggled her bottom against his pelvis. “Here, kitty kitty.”

  Had she not sounded on the verge of sleep, Hawk would have taken her up on that enticing proposition.

  Another yawn, this one accompanied by a deep, rising whoop, akin to the mating call of a whale. “Why did the Alpha call you ‘Lord Bastard’ at the punishment tree? And why does he hate you so much?”

  A pulse of surprise at the question, a rueful twist in his stomach, bittersweet, as he realized he was ashamed to answer. Of course he would tell her only the truth; even if he’d wanted to lie, his tongue wouldn’t allow it. His entire body rebelled against his better judgment when it came to her.

  “Do you remember what you called me in the forest, Salsu Maru? What Nando had called me?”

  “Mmm.”

  “In our language it means ‘Least Son.’ That’s what I am. Not the youngest of three, but the least important, because I was illegitimate. My brother has made an art form of rubbing it in my face, hence his amusing nicknames for me.”

  She’d fallen still, listening. “Your brother? The Alpha is your brother?”

  “Half,” he corrected. “So is Xander, Morgan’s husband. Three different mothers, three different lives. And in answer to the second part of your question, why he hates me so much, well . . .”

  How to explain the unexplainable? What words might properly convey the twisted logic that makes one sibling jealous of the attention given to another by a parent, even if that attention came in the form of vicious beatings for the smallest, most innocent offense? Their father had brutalized both him and Xander from the time they could walk, but for some unknown reason, to Alejandro he’d shown only supreme indifference, as if he didn’t exist at all. He never even looked at Alejandro, never acknowledged his presence in a room. Hawk would have given his eyeteeth to avoid his father’s fists, but to Alejandro, it seemed as if only he were invisible. As if he didn’t even merit the energy required to throw a punch.

  To the lonely and the longing, even negative attention is better than no attention at all.

  Hawk thought it the worst kind of sickness and perversion that his brother hated him for being an outlet for their father’s evil temper, and he’d never been able to find it in his heart to feel sorry for Alejandro, though he’d tried. Years of rancor had dug a chasm between them, a bottomless abyss that could no longer be bridged, and with the kind of cruel twist Fate so enjoys, Alejandro had turned out much like the man who sired him.

  Aloud he only said, “I wasn’t a good brother. Or a particularly good son.”

  “Are they still alive? Your parents?”

  Hawk closed his eyes. “No.”

  Hawk’s mother had suffered the same fate as Xander’s; the scope of their father’s murderous brutality wasn’t limited to his two sons. By luck or cunning only Alejandro’s mother had escaped her marriage to the Alpha alive. She’d lived a good life after her husband’s demise—he died, finally, the day Xander decided to fight back—and only a few years ago, she had drowned in a flash flood during the Season of the Inundation, when she was swept away picking mushrooms before she could climb into the trees.

  “I’m sorry,” Jacqueline murmured. “I wish there were more people in your life who loved you. You deserve it.”

  His face warmed with pleasure. Like you? he wanted to ask. Do you?

  She was silent a moment, then said, “Okay, since we’re sharing stories and you’re too chicken to ask—”

  “Cat. I am a cat. Do I need to demonstrate my essential catness and pounce on you like you’re a ball of twine?” He hissed and lightly bit the back of her neck, eliciting a giggle.

  “Excuse me. Since you’re too catty to ask . . . I’ll just go ahead and tell you.”

  Hawk froze, his hand on her arm. She burrowed down deeper into the pillow, sighing again.

  “My mother had three nervous breakdowns by the time I was ten years old.”

  Feeling the invisible steel band that had seized his heart slightly loosen, Hawk slowly exhaled.

  Not “I love you.”

  Idiot.

  “The first time I was five. I remember it because it was my birthday. There were all these people in the house: cousins, friends, my father’s military buddies. My dad was between wars then, so he was home with the family. He used to remember our birthdays by which war he was away fighting at the time we were born. Mine was Granada . . .” She faltered, her voice took on an odd, flat tone. “And . . . and Garrett’s was Cambodia.”

  Garrett. Her older brother.

  He’s the reason I’m so messed up. He’s the one who broke me.

  The steel band around Hawk’s heart began to tighten again.

  “I was just about to blow out the candles on my birthday cake when we heard the scream.”

  Hawk held still, not even daring to breathe. The little hairs on his arms stood on end.

  “Everyone turned. There was my mother, standing in the doorway of the kitchen in this beautiful, tailored yellow dress, her makeup flawless, holding a pair of sewing shears in one hand and all her hair in the other. She looked back at all the staring faces and said, ‘Heavy. It’s so heavy.’ Then she opened her hand and her hair floated to the floor, forming this forlorn red drift around her feet. After that, after she’d been taken away to ‘rest,’ I used to lie in my bed at night and wonder what had been so heavy. I just knew she wasn’t talking about her hair. I think I knew even at five years old that what she really meant was life. Life was just so goddamn heavy her mind couldn’t hold up under the weight of it, and it just kind of collapsed like an origami bird under an angry fist.”

  Hawk slid his hand down Jacqueline’s arm, slipped his fingers between hers, and squeezed.

&n
bsp; “She came back after a while, and the family pretended everything was fine. It wasn’t, of course, but we were polite and never talked about anything that mattered, which was the only way we knew how to love one another. Two years later, she cracked again. I can’t remember why. But . . . another few years went by. And this time when she cracked, the final time, I remember the reason.” Jacqueline’s voice grew small. “Though God knows I wish I didn’t.”

  Hawk drew her closer. The room had taken on a tension, a sense of anticipation, as if the air itself were waiting to hear what she would say next.

  “She wasn’t supposed to be home. It was her bridge night. My father was away on some stupid sortie or something, who knows, but we always knew how to contact him in case of an emergency. I was ten by then, and Garrett was twenty-five, still living at home, still jobless, so he was supposed to be watching me. And he was. He was always, always watching me.”

  Something in her tone set off a warning bell in Hawk’s mind. Every nerve in his body stood at high alert, shrieking a song of horror, so that when he finally heard it, he already knew.

  “It had been going on for years, of course. The first time was right before that fateful birthday party. He was my brother, and I loved him, and I believed him when he said he loved me, that it was our secret and I couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t understand . . . why . . . but I still loved him. Even though it hurt. Even though I always cried.”

  “No,” Hawk said, choked, into her hair. “No.”

  “My mother came home. She found us. She found him, on top of me in my bed. She went and got my father’s gun from the nightstand and told my brother to leave the room and then she pointed the gun at me and called me a little whore, and she pulled the trigger. She shot me three times in the stomach. And then she turned the gun on herself.”

  Her voice was totally devoid of emotion. Dead. Hawk’s arms were around her, crushing tight. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t see through the water in his eyes.

  “She was in a coma for three months before she died. My brother went to prison; my father made sure of that. And I lived. If you could call it that. I survived. I became best friends with shame, and I grew to understand how fear never lets you go once it’s sunk its hooks in you. Fear becomes a part of you, like a tumor that can never be cut out.”