Bonds of Darkness

by Joyce Ellen Armond

  Kate held out her hand, palm up. “The man outside. He did this to you, didn't he?"

  Electric streaks pulsed across the black surface. Slowly, it raised one arm. The limb lengthened, the fingers reaching our and stretching, until its cool, oily touch brushed Kate's upturned palm.

  "God damn it, Paul, YOU WILL COME WITH ME!"

  The voice echoed through the house. Kate jumped. She banged her head against a shelf above, dislodging a pair of brown loafers.

  THUD. Oh, shit.

  Footsteps banged up the stairs. Through the louvers, Kate saw a man's leg in elegantly cut trousers, a man's hand clutching in and out of a fist. She could feel the force of his presence like a hand pressing against her chest.

  The black thing—Paul?—lay almost supine, shivers breaking the surface of it over and over again.

  Anger crystallized in Kate. Cold, faceted spikes of anger. The stranger had done this to Paul. She'd heard him speaking. She'd seen the flowers. He was the same kind of man who drove Ellie and women like her to suicide.

  "I've found you,” gloated the stranger.

  Yes, you have. She couldn't afford to be weak, certainly couldn't afford being found cowering in a closet.

  "Don't worry,” she whispered. She took a deep breath, pushed wide the louvered doors, and stepped out into the bedroom. Her shoulders back, her chin tilted up, she acted as if this revealing of herself should be accompanied with a fanfare of trumpets.

  The man's jaw dropped and he stared.

  Kate smiled kindly, in a way that she might smile at a cute little dog. “Paul's not here. I've just come by to collect some of his things."

  "What?” The word dropped from the man like a bomb.

  "I don't think he'll be coming back, didn't he tell you?” Kate turned back to the closet and took a few hangars worth of shirts. She risked a glance down, and met wide yellow eyes. She put the shirts on the bed. “Is there something I can help you with?"

  The man took a step towards her. He was shorter than Paul, leaner and finer of bone. A sharp-edged man with a thin, pointed chin and overly thick lips. He radiated authority and threat like no other human being Kate had ever met, and she'd met a lot of bad people. Concentrating on keeping her hands from shaking, she matter-of-factly folded a shirt.

  "Who are you?” asked the stranger.

  Kate affected a surprised pause, the shirt held up in midair. “He didn't tell you that, either? I must apologize for his rudeness. That's not like him at all."

  Her lack of demonstrated fear, her casual tone, perhaps even her odd appearance from the closet all seemed to have put the stranger off balance and bought her some time. For that Kate was grateful. She arranged the folded shirt on the bed, pulled another from its hangar. From the stranger's soliloquy she gathered that something important would happen at dawn. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder at the window. Was that a streak of lighter blue on the horizon?

  "You're one of his witches, aren't you?” The man took a threatening step closer as he said it, putting a deep spin of scorn on the word.

  Kate felt her eyebrows go up and her jaw drop. Witches? She tried to turn her surprise to her advantage. “Please.” She curled her lips into a snide smile. “We've hardly met, and you insult me immediately."

  No sense in claiming to be something that she wasn't so early in this game. Besides, his tone and body language clearly said that he didn't think much of the witches, whoever they were. Through lowered lashes, Kate watched for clues in the stranger's reaction. He straightened his spine and tried to slice her open with his eyes.

  "Who are you?” he asked again, his tone commanding an answer.

  Kate's thoughts whirled. Continued defiance would only make the man try to dominate her. She wanted to keep surprising him, keep him off balance.

  She fashioned a charming smile, charming like the ones she'd seen on so many faces of sociopaths, put down the shirt, and held out her right hand across the bed.

  "I'm Kate. It's very nice to meet you.” She paused a beat and let just a hint of mocking brighten her eyes. “I've heard so much about you."

  The man took her hand and jerked. Kate had been expecting it, so instead of falling onto her face against the blankets she managed to end up on her knees, wobbling slightly as the mattress gave under her weight.

  The man put his face in hers. “Who are you?” he asked again. His eyes traced her features. “You don't have any magic in you."

  Kate leaned forward. The man jerked back an inch before catching himself. She put her lips next to his ear, as if to whisper a secret. “Maybe you aren't looking closely enough."

  The man pushed her away. Kate stumbled back, laughing to cover the pounding of her heart. She had no weapon if the man decided to get violent. He didn't have too much of a height advantage. The best she could hope for was to surprise him with well-practiced self-defense moves and get out of the house before he could really hurt her.

  "Where is the demon?” the man asked. He'd moved so that he had a clear shot at her. “Where is it?"

  It's a demon? Kate forced herself to resist looking at the closet. She set her feet, the better to use his weight and momentum against him, and said, “I don't know about the demon, but Paul is with me now."

  The stranger screamed and rushed her like a bull. A black form streamed from the closet, tangling up his feet. Kate skipped aside as he went down. She heard his jaw crack against the dresser. The black thing grabbed her wrist and they were running before the stranger screamed again, this time in frustration.

  I must make it to the car before he catches me. Kate repeated it in her mind as she caught herself on the newel and stutter-stepped down the stairs.

  The black thing slid down the stairs like a sled, hitting the hallway before she even made it halfway down the stairs. It waited, hand out, and then suddenly it arched, its whole body shaking.

  Kate threw a look over her shoulder. The stranger was coming out the door.

  I'm not going to make it. The man was going to catch her, and kill her.

  The black thing pulled itself to the door that opened into the studio. It was clearly in pain as it fumbled with the doorknob.

  Kate opened the door for it, trusting that the thing had a reason to hide in the studio and not make for the front door. She turned, meaning to drag it inside with her, but it slammed the door shut in her face.

  Kate heard the stranger grind out the word, “No!” She saw a chain lock. She threaded it just as the stranger crashed against the door.

  Kate skittered backwards. She banged into an easel. It tilted, spilling the drawing it held to the floor.

  "Get out of there!” the man shouted, pounding against the wood but not trying to break the lock.

  In the glow of gathering light, Kate looked down at the canvas on the floor and saw herself. It was a pencil drawing, smudges and precise lines working together to create the illusion of motion and light. A drawing of her, in her own bedroom. There—the Hudson Bay blanket on the bed, the woven rug on the floor. Jeans lay accordion-scrunched at the base of the chair. And she was depicted about to drop her nightshirt over her head. She was depicted nude, perfectly. Down to the light of the almost-full moon streaming in the window, and the bruises on her ribs.

  Kate recognized the tableau. Last night, after she had fled Paul's empty house without leaving a note. Paul—in the guise of that black thing—must have followed her home and watched through her third story window. That's how he knew she needed him. He'd been watching all along.

  "He's mine! Do you understand! All mine!"

  The shout brought her eyes up to the door again, and in the new sunlight she saw the three portraits of a man, with the black shape hiding in the background. With a shock she recognized both. She'd been hiding in the closet with the black thing. It had pushed her into this sanctuary. The man was pounding outside on the door, clearly unable or unwilling to come inside the studio.

  Kate cast around with her eyes. The room was cluttered
with canvases and sketches. She saw herself repeated several times, mostly scenes from Café Foy. There were more portraits of the man, too. And many of a woman Kate did not recognize, a woman who, even in pencil sketches, had a beauty that made her shiver.

  She'd met the man in the pictures, and the black thing he'd called a demon. Who was the beautiful girl?

  The pounding on the door stopped abruptly. In the sudden silence, Kate heard the morning symphony of chirping birds.

  The stranger sneered, “Oh, this one must be ever so special..."

  Glass shattered outside the door.

  "—if you're willing to ruin a bottle of Burgundy for her."

  "Get away from the door."

  Kate abandoned the drawings, pressed her palms flat against her side of the door. “Paul?"

  "Paul? Paul? Paul?” the stranger mocked, but the placement of his voice told Kate that he'd moved away from the studio door, as Paul had commanded. “That was such a performance, Paul. Stay with me, Sander. Don't leave me, Sander."

  Sander. Now Kate had a name. She felt less helpless against him.

  "You were stupid enough to believe it.” Paul's voice, hard and cold, came from the other side of the studio door. One quick knock against the wood under her cheek made Kate jump.

  "Kate. Get out of there."

  Her fingers scrabbled over the door chain, couldn't slide it open fast enough.

  * * * *

  Just as the hinges swung, Paul's conscious mind registered that he was naked, clammy with sweat from the change. The demon had fought hard against going back into its prison. It didn't trust him not to kill Sander and doom them both. Paul couldn't blame it.

  Sander stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands out in a position of surrender, eyes moving from the jagged edges of the broken bottle Paul held in his right hand to the door opening behind him. From the corner of his eye, Paul saw the tangle of Kate's curls peek out from the studio.

  She knows what I am. The thought tightened like a fist around his heart, even as the sight of her tousled head and freckles stirred his erection again.

  Kate's eyes moved up and down his naked body once, twice, then locked onto his face. Paul saw too many questions in them.

  "It was you,” Kate whispered. “In the closet."

  Paul shook his head, because she hadn't quite figured it out completely. How could she? It was so insane, all of it. “Just go, Kate. Get out of here now. I'll explain it all later."

  Her eyebrows climbed and he could feel her outrage like a cold wind.

  "How pathetic.” Sander plopped down onto the lowest step. “I should have sent a woman to trap you. By the look of things, any woman would do."

  Anger flared in Kate's eyes. “Shut up.” Her voice was cool and even and utterly serious.

  Panic flared in Paul at their confrontation. Sander didn't dare kill Paul, because that would end his immortality. But he could kill Kate, and that blow would break Paul forever.

  "Do you have any idea what's going on here, little Kate?"

  "No,” Paul said at the same moment as Kate said, “Yes."

  Sander laughed.

  "She doesn't know anything,” Paul said again, raising the broken bottle to emphasize his point.

  Sander narrowed his eyes. “She knows how to make you hard, Paul, and that's enough for me to hate her."

  "Shut up,” Kate said, her voice ice. “Shut up or I'll kill you."

  Sander laughed again, long and loud.

  "Kate, just get out of here now.” Paul grabbed her wrist. At the connection with her flesh, his groin tightened. He felt himself swell to full length. He'd never felt so vulnerable. “Get out now.” He shoved her towards the front door.

  Kate caught herself on the door knob. “I'm not..."

  "Go back to your house. Wait for me."

  "Paul..."

  "GET OUT!” His anger and fear, as well as the demon's, powered his shout.

  Kate went still, the light going dim in her eyes. Then she set her jaw, pulled the door open, and, without another word, went out into the morning fog. She slammed the door shut behind her.

  "This can't go on, Paul."

  Paul dragged his eyes from the slammed door, back to Sander. He sat on the step, his chin balanced on his fist.

  "This can't go on, and you know you can't win.” Sander smiled. “Why put her through all this? You know what I can do to her."

  The demon wailed helplessly. Paul felt something come loose inside him, like the tearing of muscle or snapping of bone. The pain, the fear, the humiliation was too great.

  "This can't go on,” he whispered. With sure, single-minded steps, he crossed the floor, gathered a handful of Sander's hair, jerked his head back and put the broken bottle to his exposed throat. “This can't go on."

  His ribs shuddered as the demon threw itself against the prison bars, screaming in frustration and rage.

  Sander's eyes rolled in the sockets, straining to meet Paul's. “Go ahead.” Sander croaked out the words. “Even if I won't have you, neither will she."

  Paul pressed the broken glass into Sander's flesh. A ribbon of blood ran down his throat. The sight of it made Paul smile. He pushed harder.

  The demon exploded against the prison, rocking Paul internally. His head swam and he stumbled back. He looked down at his hand, the broken bottle in it, the thick smear of blood on the glass. The red of the blood faded to black as the color drained from his vision. His bones cracked and threatened to give way. The pain drove him to his knees, pain that he'd never felt in the light of day.

  The demon subsided back into its prison, leaving Paul on all fours, gasping. When he raised his head, he saw Sander staring, a hint of fear in his eyes.

  "That has never happened,” he said softly.

  Paul ignored him. He was too afraid to string words together.

  The demon gave an exhausted whimper. It felt almost like an apology.

  I should apologize. He'd almost cost them both any chance of being free.

  "This can't go on,” Sander whispered again.

  Paul brushed past him, up the stairs. He threw on clothes, splashed water on his face. When he came back downstairs, Sander had not moved. He didn't speak to him as he left the house with no intention of keeping his appointment with Kate.

  Chapter Fourteen

  If he thinks I am going to run away from all this, he's crazy.

  Behind the wheel of her car, the motor skipping a bit in high idle, Kate watched the front door of Paul's house and waited. She knew damn well he didn't plan to meet her at her house and explain everything. The lie had been so apparent in his voice, as obvious as his erection. Her breath hitched as the memory flashed through her mind.

  Her reactions were ridiculous. She was not some tender virgin. She'd had sex before. Plenty of sex. Enough sex. Almost enough. She'd spent a romantic night in a Jacuzzi suite in Newark, frolicked naked in a flesh-shockingly cold river in Pennsylvania. She'd once even had a frenzied, spine-bending bout in the back of a Toyota with a man whose last name she'd never known and whom she'd never seen again. Every time Vanessa accused her of being an iced-over, career-centered she-bot, Kate told that story to prove her wrong. But nothing that had ever happened to her body before mattered, now that Paul had kissed her.

  Why can't I fall in love with a normal loser? A guy with a wife, a gambling problem, a heroin addiction. It was just like her to fall for the only man on the planet who turned into an inky black demon every night.

  The front door of Paul's house opened. Paul came out, dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, looking perfectly normal. He walked with purpose, his feet pounding against the ground, cutting through the morning mist like he had a plan. No sign of Sander Wald.

  Paul threw himself into the Mercedes. Kate slid her car into drive, wrapped her fingers tightly around the steering wheel. She'd made peace with her strengths and her failings. She could stand to be the Kate Scott who failed Ellie, the Kate Scott who abandoned all the values her parents ta
ught her. She could not bear to be the Kate Scott who lost Paul. That meant not running away, no matter how weird it was, no matter how scared she was.

  The Mercedes backed out onto the street, then headed east, away from her house.

  She'd been right. Paul never intended to come to her house and tell her the truth. He probably never planned to see her again.

  Kate waited until the Mercedes gained a half a block, then pulled out behind it. Traffic was sparse so soon after dawn. Kate felt sure Paul would notice her as she trailed him out of town, down a rural road, just the Mercedes and her little blue Chevy. But he drove fast, didn't slow up or swerve or give any sign that he noticed he was being followed.

  Without a flicker of a signal, Paul veered down a driveway hidden by low-hanging branches and blown-down leaves. Kate kept driving until she found a place to pull onto the grassy verge. She left her car locked by the side of the road and backtracked until she came to the driveway. She peered down the narrow lane, just a pair of tire tracks covered in leaves, really. She couldn't see where it led.

  Turning up her jacket collar, Kate took a dozen steps balanced on the ridge of one of the tire tracks, then stepped off the lane and into the scrabble of leafless trees and brambles beside it. Moving slowly, sending birds flying up as she went, she traced the driveway back into the woods for what she guessed was almost a mile, until she finally saw Paul's Mercedes parked by a little frame house, smoke rising from the chimney. Oddly, she'd expected a house of gingerbread. Surely this house belonged to the witches, whoever they were. And whoever they were, Kate was betting they knew the whole story.

  Keeping to the woods, Kate circled the house until she found a bay window looking out over the autumn remains of a vegetable garden. Through the window she saw a kitchen and three people: an older woman leaning on a cane, a young man in ripped sneakers, and Paul. The older woman and Paul were gesturing and shouting. The young man sat by the window, watching and looking upset.

  Bingo.

  She backtracked a bit so that she could cross the yard without being seen. Then, with her back against the damp bricks, she eased back. Crouching, she tucked herself in a corner where she could just barely see, and just barely hear, what was going on inside.