Darktide

by Christine Pope

  “Oh, we’ll finish it, all right,” Connor said. “Right here, right now.”

  “In front of the children?” Escobar asked, eyes widening in an expression of feigned innocence. Since his eyes were so deep-set, this didn’t have quite the effect he’d probably intended, because to me he looked more sinister than ever.

  Mia and Ian and Emily had continued to throw the ball to one another as Escobar and Connor and I spoke, but now Emily held the ball tight to her little chest and turned so she could see us.

  “Mommy!” she cried out, then took a step forward.

  That was all she could manage, however, because it seemed as if she had just walked into an invisible barrier of some sort. She dropped the ball and put out her hands. They smashed up flat against the wall that had been erected to keep her from going any further, for all the world making her look as if she was imitating a mime’s “trapped inside a box” routine.

  “You let her go!” I cried, even as her face screwed up and she began to cry.

  At once Marisol moved forward and took her in her arms, attempting to soothe her. Emily would have none of it, however, and began struggling and writhing to get away. Ian saw this and ran to her, pulling on Marisol’s arm so she would release his sister.

  And Mia stood and watched, and began to cry as well, probably because she didn’t know what else to do.

  The sudden commotion made Escobar’s mouth twist in distaste. “Enough,” he said, snapping his fingers. At once the sound of the children crying blanked out. It wasn’t that they had stopped — I could still see their mouths moving, but whatever sounds they were making had been eliminated somehow.

  As much as I hated Joaquin Escobar, I had to admit that was a handy little trick.

  “No,” Isabel said. She’d been quiet this whole time, but now she leveled the dark warlock with a flat stare as she stood shoulder to shoulder with me. “It is the rest of us who have had enough. You will let those children go.”

  “And who are you?” he inquired, giving her a half-contemptuous glance. He must have been able to sense something of her prima energy, but maybe he thought she would be as easy to beat as Luz Trujillo.

  Isabel’s chin lifted, and her dark eyes flashed fire. “I am Isabel María Constanza de Léon Castillo, the prima of the Castillo clan. And I say it is enough.” She made an abrupt slicing motion with the hand that wasn’t holding mine, and suddenly we not only heard the children crying again, but saw that Ian had managed to pry Emily away from Marisol, who was probably startled that a five-year-old could possess such strength. He then grabbed Mia by the arm and bolted toward us.

  “Get in the house, Ian,” Connor said, and even though Ian usually tended to argue with every instruction he was given, this time he bolted up the stairs and past us, Emily and Mia in tow.

  I didn’t exactly let out a sigh of relief, but knowing the children were out of Escobar’s immediate grasp did make me feel a bit better. He, on the other hand, scowled furiously and stuck a hand out toward Marisol. She took it, and I could almost feel the connection they made, feel it like ozone building before a thunderstorm.

  “You should not have done that,” Escobar gritted, moving toward us.

  Looking supremely unconcerned, Isabel said. “On the contrary. It was the only thing I could have done. You should have known better, Joaquin Escobar, than to drag children into a fight which doesn’t concern them.”

  His mouth tightened, but it appeared he wasn’t going to waste time by making a retort, because in the next moment, he’d struck out with one of those horrendous unseen shockwaves, the same thing that had knocked the wind out of me and dealt poor Luz a fatal blow.

  The results were slightly different this time. I wasn’t sure whether it was because Connor and I knew something of what to expect, or because Isabel was so much more powerful, but the blow came toward us and then bounced off, almost as if we’d cast one of Alex’s protective bubbles. I honestly didn’t remember doing such a thing, and yet I knew we had survived the attack without taking any kind of hurt at all.

  The startled expression that passed over Escobar’s face was so comical, I almost wanted to laugh. Weren’t expecting that, were you, asshole? I thought. Let’s try something else.

  Again, it wasn’t so much that I had a conscious thought of doing so, but more as if my mind and body knew what they needed to do, drawing the power from somewhere deep within. It sent Escobar’s shockwave back at him, hitting the warlock and his companion with such force that they both went tumbling to the ground.

  Marisol let out a shocked cry, her hand going to her belly as she painfully pushed herself back upright. Oh, hell — in the heat of the moment, I’d completely forgotten that she was pregnant. With Escobar’s child, true, which meant I might be doing her a favor by having her miscarry.

  No. I couldn’t let myself think that way, no matter how much I might hate Joaquin Escobar. If we all survived this, and she decided to end the pregnancy, that was her decision, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to make it for her.

  Eyes locked on her, I called out, “Marisol, this isn’t your fight. I know you can’t understand that right now, not with this man controlling your mind. Fight it. Don’t let him use your power.”

  She blinked at me, a flash of comprehension, of horror, showing in her dark eyes before the familiar blankness closed down again.

  “Nice try,” Escobar said with a curl of his lip. “But she is mine. She doesn’t have the strength to break free. Just as you don’t have the strength to defeat me.”

  Without warning, the marble step beneath our feet began to crumble. I stumbled and could feel myself starting to fall — but then Connor’s strong fingers tightened on mine, holding me up.

  Isabel, however, was not so lucky. Her hand slipped from my grasp, and she tumbled onto the lawn. But, just as quickly as she’d fallen, she was back on her feet, brushing at the knees of her dark slacks. Her expression was more one of irritation than alarm, and she planted her hands on her hips and stared back at Joaquin Escobar, lip curled in derision.

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  “Hardly,” he said. The ozone smell intensified, and lightning crackled around him, taking shape as it coalesced into a blue-white ball almost too bright to look at. He flung the ball at the Castillo prima, who held up her hands just in time to block it.

  Or rather, she kept it from colliding with her head, but it still crashed into her, blackening her hands and forearms. She let out a cry of pain, even as Connor and I hurried toward her, wrapping our arms around her waist because we feared we would only hurt her further if we took her by her hands.

  “Can you manage?” I asked in an undertone, noting how drawn with pain her face now was, how white her usually olive complexion had turned.

  “Yes,” she said, voice tight. “But you must know, Angela, that my daughter Genoveva knows of our bargain. If anything happens to me, she will still hold you to it.”

  “Don’t — ” I began. I’d meant to say, Don’t talk that way, but I wasn’t given the chance, because Escobar had flung another ball of lightning at us.

  This time, Connor and I reacted together, immediately conjuring a supercharged version of the same barrier we’d used earlier, Isabel’s power blending with ours. The ball lightning crashed into it and scattered white-hot energy sideways, but it didn’t touch us. Still, I could tell how much power had been contained in that attack, how even the three of us working together might not be able to shield ourselves indefinitely.

  Isabel staggered, clearly having felt the drain on her resources far more than we did. Over her drooping head, Connor and I exchanged a frightened glance. How many more of those assaults could we withstand?

  As many as we need to, I told myself fiercely. This ends here.

  And we gathered up our own energy, only this time in a bolt we could send directly against Escobar. Even though we hadn’t consciously made such an agreement, my husband and I both knew that we needed to avoid attack
ing Marisol if at all possible. She was an innocent, and certainly didn’t deserve to share her captor’s fate.

  The lightning bolt flew across the backyard and connected. Or rather, it seemed to hit the dark warlock, only instead of knocking him down, it flowed around him, encasing him in a coffin of shimmering light before disappearing altogether.

  His lip lifted in a sneer. “Is that the best you can do?”

  Another shockwave hit us, coming so fast that our defenses hadn’t yet recovered from the last barrage. I staggered and bit my lip so hard I could taste blood, metallic on my tongue. My arm tightened on Isabel’s waist; on her other side, Connor held her up as well. She made no sound except a sharp, hissing intake of breath, but I somehow knew that the impact had taken its toll on her, that it had only served to worsen the injuries she’d already sustained.

  Then, improbably, she smiled. Her voice echoed in my head.

  Take my power. Take all of it, and use it against him.

  I can’t —

  You will, and you must. You are the prima of the McAllisters. Your bond is with the primus of the Wilcoxes. Only the two of you can take my gift and make it into the weapon you need in this moment.

  Tears leaked from my eyes, dripping down my cheeks. I’d thought Isabel cold and haughty, and yet I wasn’t sure I would have been able to make the same sacrifice.

  My life has been a good one, Angela. There is no sorrow in this. We do what we must to protect the ones we love. Only…do not forget your promise to me. Swear that you will send the child to my clan.

  I swear, I told her. I will. No matter what.

  Then take it.

  An enormous flare of yellow light, like the sun coming up over the horizon. And yet I was able to stare into that blazing light, let its heat and its power and its warmth move through me, join with my own prima power, twine with Connor’s primus energy, creating something so far beyond any of us, it was almost like looking into the face of the Goddess…or of God.

  In that moment, names didn’t matter.

  The only thing that mattered was striking down the man who was the very antithesis of that light, a black hole of negative energy, the null who had caused all of this. Connor and I held up Isabel’s limp form and channeled that power, sent forth a blaze of energy that crossed the distance between us in less time than the space of one heartbeat.

  The glowing ball of light hit Joaquin Escobar and flared out even more brightly, consuming him the way a gasoline-fueled fire might consume summer-dry wood, jumping from limb to limb in less time than it took me to pull in a breath. He writhed where he stood, body shuddering as the fire took the dark life from him. One high-pitched cry that felt as though it would be seared into my eardrums forever, and then he was gone, nothing left except a pile of black dust. The wind picked up that dust, swirling it around and around like a miniature tornado. And in the blink of an eye, the dust was gone, nothing left, no hint of the man who had stood there a moment before, or of all the terrible things he had done.

  Only Marisol lying on the grass, great heaving sobs shaking her slender form. Connor and I gently laid Isabel’s body on the ground, then hurried to the Santiago prima and knelt beside her.

  “Marisol?” I asked.

  “Where — ” She blinked at her surroundings as if she’d never seen them before. Slowly, some of the haze left her dark eyes, although she still seemed more confused than anything. “Is this my Aunt Beatriz’s house?”

  “Yes,” I said gently, then glanced away from her to meet Connor’s worried gaze. “Do you remember anything at all?”

  “No,” she replied, reaching up to wipe away the tears that stained her cheeks. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I just know that I feel horribly sad for some reason.”

  My heart ached for her — for her, and for Isabel, and Boyd, and Luz, for everyone we’d lost. Soon we’d have to tell her what had happened, that her aunt and uncle and husband were gone, that she was now the prima of her clan, even as she carried the child of the man who had tried to usurp its power.

  There would be a time for all that. Now, though, I only wanted to go inside and find my children. Take them by the hands, take them home, far away from this terrible place.

  “Let’s go and sit down,” I told Marisol. “And then…we’ll do our best to explain what’s happened.”

  25

  Lucinda Santiago

  She set the phone down on the coffee table, all too aware of the way Brandon sat a foot away from her on the sofa, pretending to scroll through the offerings on Netflix but really doing his best not to watch her. When the call had come through, he’d asked whether he should go into his bedroom so she could have some privacy. She’d demurred, mostly because she’d halfway known what the call would be about as soon as she saw the number on the caller I.D., and she’d wanted him to stay with her, hadn’t wanted to deal with this by herself.

  Voice flat, she said, “Marisol wants me to come back to Pasadena. She sounded…almost like herself again, but tired.”

  Still not really looking in her direction, Brandon replied, “Well, I can understand why she’d be tired — and why she would want you to go back to California. She’s been through hell. It makes sense that she’d want you by her.”

  He sounded reasonable…too reasonable. And Lucinda knew that what he was saying made sense, because she’d entertained thoughts along those same lines. Marisol had lost her husband, was now prima of the Santiagos years or even decades sooner than she’d thought she would be. Lucinda’s parents were dead, and since Marisol was her maternal aunt’s oldest daughter, they were some of the closest relatives either of them had left. Why on earth would she stay here in Jerome instead of returning to her home, to a place where she could help rebuild the clan Joaquin Escobar had tried to tear apart?

  Why, indeed.

  Lucinda watched Brandon out of the corner of her eye. His expression was studiously neutral, so she couldn’t begin to guess what might be going through his head. And what had she been expecting, really? For him to go down on one knee and declare his undying love for her, tell her that she had to stay here with him? That was just crazy. She wouldn’t deny that she had feelings for him — and she hoped those feelings were reciprocated — but they really didn’t have all that much to go on. Some stolen kisses, a few precious evenings where she’d come here to his apartment and snuggled with him as they watched TV? The relationship hadn’t gone any further than that because she wasn’t sure if she was ready. Not after what Matías had done to her. Besides, everything had been so crazy, she’d known it wasn’t the right time to try to take their relationship to the next level. Why plan for a future when you didn’t know for sure if you would even have one?

  When she didn’t immediately reply, Brandon shifted on the sofa so he was facing toward her. “Do you want to go?”

  “I — ” Suddenly Lucinda’s throat was dry. She reached for the glass of water she’d left sitting on the coffee table and took a long drink. In her mind, she saw the cool shadows along Oak Creek, heard the soft chatter of water over stones. That day she’d spent with Brandon, she’d thought she could be happy here, hadn’t wanted anything to do with the life she’d left behind in Southern California. Now, though, with the heaviness of family responsibility weighing on her, she didn’t know what she wanted. “I’m not sure. I mean, I know everyone is expecting me to. It would be the right thing to do.”

  “More than staying here with me?”

  There. He’d said it. And thank God for that, because it meant she wouldn’t have to wrestle with herself over whether she should force herself to bring up the subject. Voice small, she said, “I suppose that depends on you. Whether — whether you’d want me to stay.”

  At once he set down the remote and moved closer to her, pulled her toward him so he could wrap his arms around her. “Of course I want you to stay. But I also understand why your family needs you in California. So…why don’t I come with you to Pasadena?”

  She stare
d at him, into his earnest storm-blue eyes. He meant it. He really did. She could tell, because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to meet her gaze so directly.

  Somehow she found her voice. “You mean that?”

  “Of course I do, or I wouldn’t have said it.”

  “But — ” She faltered and gave a quick glance around the room, at the large window and the spectacular view of the Verde Valley beyond it. “You’d really leave Jerome? What about your sister?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “She has Levi. I think she’ll be able to survive my absence. And we’d only be one state over. The lines are getting blurred between the clans — I don’t think territories mean as much as they used to. There wouldn’t be a problem with coming back and visiting here when we wanted to, would there?”

  “No.” Her eyes blurred with tears — happy tears — and she blinked. “No, there wouldn’t be a problem. How could there be, since Marisol would still be Joaquin Escobar’s slave if it weren’t for your prima and her consort?”

  “Well, you never know.” His arms tightened around her, and she pulled in a breath, glad to feel the strength in his embrace, the reassuring solid warmth of him.

  “And your job?” she asked, now fairly convinced he really meant what he’d said but still wanting to make sure. “That job is your life.”

  He shook his head at once. “No, it’s a job. A job I really enjoy, but it’s not my life. I want to make my life with you. Besides,” he added, a grin lifting his lips, “Southern California is the center of car culture. That’s where it all started. With my credit on Dream Machines, I know I can get a job in one of the top custom shops there, no problem.”

  Happiness washed through her at his words, but she couldn’t help teasing him a bit. “Oh, now I get it. You just want to come with me so you’ll have a chance at the big time.”