Darkness Bound (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Alejandro was panting, seething, wanting to kill him on the spot, but he couldn’t. No one could, which gave Hawk great satisfaction. According to the Ancient Ways, the Alpha and the challenger had to meet at sunset on the day of the challenge to do battle, with the entire tribe as witness. Once the ritual words had been spoken, not even the Alpha could strike until the appointed time.

  So for the moment, Hawk was untouchable. He sent Alejandro a bitter smile.

  “The Arena at sunset, then,” hissed Alejandro. “And then we’ll finally see what the Bastard is made of.” Flicking a lethal look at one of the remaining guards, he added, “Get a pyre ready at the Well of Souls.” He looked back at Hawk, his green eyes glowing hatefully bright. “Salsu Maru is going to burn.”

  Since ancient days, cremation had been their preferred form of burial, and Hawk knew that win or lose, someone was going to be on that funeral pyre tomorrow morning.

  Because the gauntlet he’d thrown down was a winner-takes-all proposition.

  The challenge of a sananu was to the death.

  “Sunset,” said Hawk. Then he turned and strode out of the room.

  Jack awoke with a hangover so colossal it felt as if her brain was using jackhammers and dynamite to make a break from her skull.

  There was pounding, copious pounding, accompanied by dizziness, the urge to vomit, and a violent twitching of the skin beneath her left eye. She sat up—bed? Why was she in bed? Whose bed was it?—and looked around the room she found herself in.

  It appeared to be some kind of tree house. Large and open and beautiful . . . she’d never seen it before in her life.

  The urge to vomit became an irrefutable order, transmitted from her angry brain to her queasy stomach, which she immediately obeyed.

  When the last of the heaves died, Jack looked down at the polished wood floor. It was splattered with the contents of her stomach, which seemed not so much disgusting as physically impossible. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything.

  She was having trouble remembering much of anything at all.

  Towel, she thought. In this situation, a rational person would go find a towel and clean up this mess. One couldn’t be expected to think clearly when faced with such a large—weirdly green—mess on the floor. Whoever’s floor it happened to be. She’d figure out what to do next after she’d cleaned up.

  Satisfied with her plan in spite of the agony in her head, Jack wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, stood from the bed, and looked around the room.

  Standing was a mediocre idea, at best. The room became a sideways slipping blur, and she sank back to the mattress on gelatinous legs, shaking, her skin covered in a cold sweat.

  “Okay. Just take it easy for a minute. Just sit here for a minute, and get your bearings. Nooo rush.”

  Clearly, she was no longer in New York. But where on Earth was she?

  “All right. You’re functioning at ten percent physically and mentally, best-case scenario.” She was going to ignore the fact that she was talking out loud to an empty room, and cut herself some slack. “What you need is a big glass of water. And Advil. And a towel. Let’s just focus on those three things, and we’ll go from there.”

  She tried standing again, and found it less challenging this time. She shuffled to an open door on the other side of the room, grateful that it turned out to be a bathroom. A bit primitive, sparse and masculine, but still a bathroom. She washed her face and rinsed her mouth in the sink, used the toilet, pulled a towel from a folded stack in a small cabinet, returned to the bedroom, and sopped up the mess.

  When she was finished, she debated what to do with the towel. She settled on leaving it outside on the porch, because there didn’t seem to be any hamper or proper laundry facilities in her immediate vicinity, and she certainly wasn’t going to go looking.

  There had been no medicine cabinet in the bathroom. No Advil. There didn’t appear to be a kitchen where she could find a drinking glass. What kind of place was this?

  A theory took root.

  She was on assignment. Obviously, she was in the jungle; the rainforest loomed thick and misted beyond the tree house, exotic birds called through the canopy, a brown monkey hung upside down by its tail from a branch not ten yards away, eating fruit. She was on assignment in some tropical war zone, and had gotten food poisoning. Or been given drugs?

  The thought of drugs made her pause. Something about the word filtered through her haze . . .

  No. Nothing.

  Okay. Don’t panic. Think. Concentrate. Her last assignment had been . . . Manaus. That’s right! Relieved, she clung to the memory. She was getting off a plane at the Manaus airport. She’d checked into a hotel—not here, wherever here was—she’d gone to check out the Mercado Municipal . . .

  After that there was a big black hole where her memory used to be.

  Thinking she might have fallen and hit her head, Jack carefully felt her skull. She found no telltale lumps or bumps. Other than her throbbing head and a general sense of illness, her body seemed to be unharmed, too. So what happened?

  There was a sound from somewhere below. Downstairs? Yes, there were footsteps on stairs, definitely. Someone was coming. Someone else was here!

  “You’re awake.”

  Holy shit.

  That was her first and only thought as she stared at the man who’d appeared out of nowhere, charging into the room as if he belonged here. He pulled up to an abrupt stop when he caught sight of her standing beneath the eaves on the narrow porch that ran around the house.

  He was huge, rugged, and altogether beautiful, staring at her with a tender light in his eyes like she was something out of a dream. But maybe this was her dream. Maybe she was still asleep?

  No. The sunshine on her shoulder was real. Her pounding heart was real. Her sense of terror and confusion were definitely real.

  The man took a step toward her. She took a step back. A flicker of worry crossed his face. Taking another step forward he said, “Jacqueline?”

  “Stay away from me,” she said, beginning to shake.

  He froze. His gaze, electric green, raked over her. The intimacy of it made her feel utterly exposed, as if he knew all her secrets. As if he’d seen straight down into the darkest corners of her soul. His eyes flicked back up to hers and now they were wide and horrified. His expression turned horrified, too. He whispered, “The spirit vine. It wore off, didn’t it?”

  He took another step toward her, hand outstretched, and Jack did the only thing she could think to do.

  She screamed.

  “What do you mean, she doesn’t remember anything?” said Xander, confused.

  “Just what I said!” shouted Hawk, red-faced. “She doesn’t remember a thing!”

  “Inaccurate,” said Jacqueline between gritted teeth. “I remember my name, my age, where I’m from, and what I do for a living. The pertinent facts are intact. I just don’t remember”—she glanced around the Assembly room—“this.” Her gaze flicked between Morgan, Xander, and Hawk. “You.”

  The three of them stood on one side of the room, in front of the long, curving tables where the members had been sitting when Hawk made his declaration of war, which now seemed lifetimes ago. Jack stood across from them in almost the exact spot Hawk had stood, her feet spread apart, still in the chemise she’d slept in. Her lips were pressed thin. Her eyes blazed blue fury. Her legs were long and bare. And because Hawk hadn’t been able to get her out of his home any other way, her hands were tied behind her back.

  She hadn’t liked that at all.

  In fact, it would be accurate to say she hated it.

  “Bloody hell, she isn’t a farm animal—untie the poor thing!” snapped Morgan, glaring at Hawk. “Are you off your trolley? Jesus H. Christ on a cross, this entire day has gone pear-shaped!”

  Hawk looked at Xan
der, who shrugged and nodded.

  Swallowing around the fist in his throat, he approached Jacqueline, his hands spread wide in a placating gesture. “Jacqueline, I’m going to untie your hands.”

  “About friggin’ time!”

  “So don’t try to hit me or anything.”

  “Gee, why would I want to do that? It’s not like you overpowered me, and bound me, and threw me over your shoulders like a sack of potatoes! It’s not like you walked a mile while I was hanging upside down—”

  “It wasn’t nearly that far—”

  “—and every person around stood and stared as we passed—”

  “I think you’re exaggerating a little—”

  “—at my ass, which was on display like it was the Kmart blue light special!”

  Hawk was an arm’s length away. Jacqueline was breathing hard, looking at him as if she wished she were holding a bazooka. “I apologize. But you were screaming very loudly. And you were throwing things. I had to subdue you—”

  “Subdue me?” He didn’t think it possible, but she stiffened even more. Her face turned a deep crimson.

  “So that you wouldn’t hurt either of us, and so that I could bring you here, to get help.”

  She repeated acidly, “Help.”

  “Yes.” Hawk nodded. “They’re going to help us.”

  “Not that we have any idea how,” said Xander mildly. Hawk threw him a murderous glance over his shoulder. Xander was standing there with his muscular arms crossed over his chest, obviously trying not to smile.

  “All right. Fine. Help. Untie me.” She presented Hawk with her bound wrists, still glaring at him.

  Without allowing himself to stop and think about the insanity of the situation, or the possibility that she might never again recognize him, or the awful, throbbing pain in his chest, Hawk quickly untied the knot he’d made in the rope that secured her wrists, and pulled it off.

  She whirled around and slapped him across the face.

  He exhaled hard, and closed his eyes. “That never gets old.”

  His sarcastic tone was lost on Jacqueline. “I’m sure women do that to you all the time, don’t they, Tarzan? What with you being so charming and all!”

  Hawk opened his eyes and watched her rub her wrists, scowling. “No. Just you.”

  “Yeah, well just count yourself lucky there’s not a blunt object within easy reach, buddy, or the side of your head would be getting intimately acquainted with it!”

  Wishing he had something to crush between his hands, throw, or break over his knee, Hawk said, “Morgan. A little help, please.”

  Morgan approached. With the bearing of a general addressing her troops before sending them off into battle, she said, “Jacqueline. My name is Morgan Montgomery Luna. That”—she pointed at Xander—“is my husband, Alexander. That”—she pointed at Hawk—“is my brother-in-law, Hawk. This”—she indicated the room, the jungle beyond—“is our colony, which is located in the rainforest outside Manaus, Brazil—”

  “Morgan!” snapped Xander, outraged.

  In response to her husband’s angry interruption, Morgan waved a dismissive hand.

  “You were brought here to observe us—our ways, our lifestyle—in an effort to bring a better understanding of the Ikati to the outside world. Hopefully, to ultimately foster a friendship between our two species. Or at least start the discussions toward peace. I know you’re upset, but let me assure you that you’re in no danger. I’ll answer any questions you have to the best of my ability, and hopefully we can figure out exactly what happened to your memory so we can get it back. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

  There followed a long silence wherein Jacqueline processed what Morgan had said. She tilted her head, frowning. “Lucas,” she said.

  Hawk started. His heart surged inside his chest. “Yes? What?”

  She looked at him. “I don’t know. That just came to me when she was talking.”

  Hawk licked his lips, tried to swallow. His mouth was Sahara dry. “That’s my name.”

  Her frown deepened. “She just said your name was Hawk.”

  His heart was beginning to burrow its way through his breastbone. “It’s a long story. But my real name is Lucas.”

  Her expression soured. That little tidbit didn’t seem to please her.

  “That’s a good sign!” said Morgan, brightening. “Now, Jacqueline, why don’t you and I have a seat and talk. I’m sure the boys have other important things to attend to.” She glanced at Hawk, then at Xander, her look no longer so bright. “Don’t you.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m not leaving her,” said Hawk, staring at Jacqueline.

  “Hawk.”

  He ignored Xander’s warning tone. “I’m not leaving this room until I know she’s safe.”

  Jacqueline wouldn’t look at him. Morgan did, however, and her look was long and penetrating. She said, “You have a challenge to prepare for, my friend. You should go get some rest, go—”

  “Not. Leaving. This. Room,” he reiterated, almost hissing.

  Morgan’s gaze grew questioning, even more intense. She examined his face, the twitching muscle in his jaw, his posture, rigid and battle ready. Then her eyes cleared, and she looked for a moment as if she would break into song. But she simply shook her head, smiling, as if at a private joke. With a sidelong glance, she said, “Consider it a favor to me. A gift, if you will.”

  She’d put emphasis on the word “gift,” as if there were special meaning in it.

  Hawk cocked his head, thinking . . . and then he knew.

  Not a gift . . . a Gift.

  Hope flooded his body as if he’d been injected with it.

  He turned on his heel, jerked his head for Xander to follow, and, without another word, left.

  They sat at one of the long tables in the warm, silent room. Tinted luminous violet from the fabric hanging from the tall tree branches above, shafts of sunlight illuminated the floor. Jacqueline was pale as stone, stoic and straight-backed in the chair opposite her, but Morgan smelled her confusion and fear as bright as a handful of lemon zest tossed in the air.

  Fear. That one thing was everything that was wrong in the world.

  “My husband was assigned to kill me,” she began, crossing her legs and settling back into her chair. “That’s how we met. He was an assassin, I was his mark. Funny, isn’t it, the strange ways love stories can begin?”

  Jacqueline sent her an arch look. “Ever heard of Stockholm syndrome?”

  Morgan ignored that. “I was a traitor, you see. A traitor to the tribe. I’d done the unforgivable: colluded with the enemy. They promised me freedom—something I’d never, ever had, mind you—and all I had to give them in return was a name. At the time it seemed like a grand idea. I was always an outsider, a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I never once felt I belonged to the place or time or people I was born to. And I wanted . . . things.” She sighed, remembering the girl she’d once been. That lonely, longing girl. “I wanted to be the kind of girl who devoured life. The kind of girl who knew how to dance a tango and speak exotic languages and roll her own cigarettes. The kind of girl who splashed naked in Paris fountains at midnight and jumped out of airplanes for fun and died in some beautiful, tragic way that would inspire poets to write works of great genius and crowds of people to weep over my flower-draped coffin, wailing my name.

  “I wanted so many things. Frivolous things. Grand, ridiculous conceits. But there was only one thing I really needed, though it took me half a lifetime to discover it.”

  She had Jacqueline’s attention now.

  “Hope.” The word lingered on her tongue, soft as a lover’s name. “I never understood that a person can endure anything, any tragedy or hardship, as long as she has hope. It’s the single most powerful force in the universe. More powerful, eve
n, than love.”

  “Hope,” repeated Jacqueline warily.

  “It’s what differentiates us from all the other creatures of the Earth. Most people might point to love, but even insects love their offspring. It’s coded into the DNA of every living being to love, to protect those closest by blood or bond. It’s how species continue to exist, continue to procreate. But hope . . . that’s the thing that truly sets us apart.”

  Her audience looked more than a little dubious. “What about language? Music? Art?”

  “You can teach a monkey language,” Morgan scoffed. “Besides, every animal has a means of communication. Just because they’re not speaking the King’s English doesn’t mean they don’t have language. Music, too. And art, well! Most of what we call ‘art’ isn’t. It’s just a bunch of narcissists jerking each other off. Technically speaking, animals make art all the time. Have you ever seen a pod of dolphins racing over the open water? Art. Have you ever seen a honeycomb, or a spider’s web, or the incredible architecture of a bird’s nest? All art. It’s everywhere in the natural world, only we don’t call it ‘art’ because animals aren’t navel-gazers; their art is always functional. It doesn’t exist just to relieve their mommy issues, or stroke their egos, or satisfy their pathetic need for approval.”

  After a time, Jacqueline said, “You’re sure your husband wasn’t assigned to kill you because you’re over-opinionated? Men generally can’t stand that. In my experience, a woman with strong opinions affects a man’s testicles in the same way as exposure to extreme cold.”

  That made her laugh. “I can see why he likes you. He’s always had dreadful taste in women, but you . . . you’re a keeper, duckie.”

  “He?” said Jacqueline pointedly.

  Morgan studied her, the laughter fading. “It’s a great gift, too, you know. Probably the greatest gift one soul can give another. It’s what Xander gave me. It’s the reason I ultimately returned here with him, when I could have lived anywhere in the world. Done all the things I ever wanted. He gave me what I needed in order to accept my past. To embrace it. To transcend it.”