Darkness Brutal (The Dark Cycle Book 1)

by Rachel A. Marks

  “It’s a Porsche, genius.”

  “Then you go first. Let’s see you get it up in this place.”

  “Whatever. You two pansies can go back into the club. Me and Miss Malibu here will figure it out.”

  The ringleader props the girl’s limp body against the Dumpster. Then he pulls up her skirt.

  My insides catch fire, and I nearly lose it completely, fighting back the urge to run full tilt at the guy and pound him bloody. But I swallow my rage and make myself think through the tangle in my head. I move slow, slipping closer and closer, silent as a ghost, until I’m right behind them and can see the color of their designer clothes, the sheen of their glossy hair.

  “Hey, assholes.”

  They spin, the ringleader letting go of the girl so she slides back to the asphalt. Fear pours off them in sticky waves. The cat-demon turns and tips its rotund head at me in curiosity, crawls a little farther away, and then focuses back on the three boys.

  Now that I have their attention, I’m not so sure this is a good idea. I’ve done three against one before—defending my space or my stuff—but it usually ends with me in more pain than I like. Up close, I can see they’re just bored rich boys, thin in the soul and thick in the head.

  The one on the end backs away a step, then takes off running down the alley.

  One down. Two to go.

  “Can’t get a date the normal way?” I ask.

  “She said she needed to puke,” the taller one says—the ringleader. He’s got the mark of murder on his soul; small fissures grow out from around his left eye like his soul’s been cracked. He smirks, his fear fading as he looks me over. “We were just holding her hair.” A red spark lights his iris for a second, revealing the lie.

  The other guy nods his head, mute.

  “Aw, how nice of you.” I smile at the ringleader, trying to steady my breathing. “A regular philanthropist.” I move my hand to my back pocket where my knife is—slowly, so they won’t notice—and pull it free, keeping it behind my back. It’s never good to show your hand too soon. If this guy’s killed before, he’s less likely to back down easy.

  Ringleader steps into me, testing my resolve. “Don’t butt in, rat boy. Go back to the hole you crawled out of. This is men’s business.”

  The mess of his rotten energy comes at me like dark, sticky tar. I grit my teeth, gripping the hilt of the knife harder. “Leave her alone, or I’m gonna get blood all over those nice designer jeans when I cut your balls off.”

  The other guy pulls on Ringleader’s shirt. “Come on, man,” he says. “It’s not worth it.”

  Ringleader stares at me, his jaw working, the cracks in his soul becoming a little more obvious, like he’s considering killing me, too. “I should kick your ass.”

  I stare back, daring him to try.

  Logic wins out, and the two of them move away, heading for the street. The demon lingers, though, slinking into the shadows, like it plans on seeing what happens to the girl next. I move my gaze so it can’t tell I’m watching it and put my knife away. I give my insides time to settle for a second and make sure the demon keeps to the shadows rather than coming out to mess with either of us before I turn back to check on the girl.

  I kneel next to her, looking her over, checking for a bump on her head, even though I’m pretty sure she just drank too much. Hopefully she wasn’t roofied. Her hair is soft against my palm, her skin milky in the moonlight. And then I realize she’s familiar. This is the beach girl I saw inside. She’s wearing red Converse sneakers and a Hurley T-shirt.

  I feel a new wave of rage wash over me, recalling her smile and knowing what these bastards were planning on doing to her—in a parking lot, next to a Dumpster. That light inside her would’ve been snuffed right out.

  My hands shake trying to fix her jean skirt, to pull her shirt down. I tap her cheek a little. “Wake up,” I say, hoping, praying they didn’t drug her. She looks so pale. Her head lolls.

  I have two choices here: call 911 and open myself up to scrutiny from the cops, or drag her somewhere and leave her so someone else will call—which feels kind of chickenshit.

  She moans and pushes away my hand.

  “Can you hear me? Open your eyes.”

  She shakes her head and frowns like she’s about to say, It’s not time for school, Mom.

  Seeing she’s somewhat lucid opens up a third option: find her ID.

  With apologies, I reach into her pockets.

  Bingo! A license.

  Rebecca Emery Willow McLane. That’s a mouthful.

  5'5".

  130 lbs.

  DOB: 05/16/1995.

  That makes her sixteen. How the hell did she get into the club? Eric won’t be happy.

  Her address is in the hills, near Universal.

  Near Ava.

  The back of my neck prickles, but I shake it off. I’m being too suspicious. I have to force myself not to glance back at the shadows to see if the demon is still there, watching.

  I pull my cell out and call Hanna to ask her if I can borrow the car service to get somewhere, and she agrees without question, telling me a car will meet me out back. I hang up and gather Rebecca in my arms. She’s waking up more, but I can tell she doesn’t know where she is. Maybe she does need a doctor.

  After about five minutes, a black car pulls out from the garage behind the club. It stops beside us, and the driver rolls down the window. “Looks like she had a bit too many,” he says with a laugh, then motions for us to hurry. Since she’s more awake, I’m able to help her into the cab. I close us in, recite the address to the driver, and we’re on our way—no strange looks, no questions.

  I’m not sure if I should be relieved or worried by his lack of concern for the girl.

  It’s about a thirty-minute drive with traffic. Rebecca stirs a few times, sighing and mumbling about someone named Charlie. She doesn’t seem drugged, not really. Just really drunk. She turns and rests her head on my chest, nestling into me like a cat as her slim fingers clutch my ratty hoodie. Her hair smells like citrus and mango. And her breath smells like Jack and Coke.

  I hope I’m doing the right thing.

  We pull up in front of a house that’s set back off the road. A low stone wall encircles the property. The lawn is perfectly trimmed, accented with bushes, and some flowers run along a winding stone path. The windows are dark, and the long driveway’s empty. Ritzy people keep their cars in the garage, though, right?

  I check the license again to make sure it’s the right place.

  Rebecca stirs and starts to open her eyes, but then she hisses through her teeth and grabs her head, like she’s trying to keep it from exploding.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She shrinks from my voice and moans in pain.

  “We’re here, Rebecca. I’ll help you to the door, but you’ll have to do the rest.” I get out of the car with her in my arms and tell the driver not to wait. I’ll find my own way back.

  Rebecca mumbles something as I half lead, half carry her up the walk, whispering to her, “It’s okay, you’re home now.” She whimpers a protest against my chest.

  I study the shadows as we come up to the door, putting my feelers out, looking for the demon from the alley, but it doesn’t seem to have followed us. A little luck, at last.

  “Do you have a key?” I ask.

  She waves her hand at a potted plant next to the door, then moans again and throws up into the bushes.

  I step back as she leans on the wall. She heaves some more and slinks down to the ground.

  I find the key in the planter—these people must not care about their crap—and unlock the door. I pick her up and put her arm over my shoulder, ushering her into the dark house. I have to hunch so I’m not dragging her; she’s not helping with the walking much.

  Our breathing echoes in the large ent
ryway, her Converse squeak on the marble floor, and no parents come running. But I’m tense, ready for flight any second.

  I take in the surroundings, trying to feel for spirits or demons or residual echoes. There’s a slight hum in the air, like maybe there was an argument recently, but otherwise it just smells like Lysol and new paint. There’s the comforting ticktock of a grandfather clock. I look around for a couch to set her down on, but she starts heading to the stairs, so I follow, slowly, up the large staircase, past double doors to what I assume is her room.

  Her bed is huge, with thick puffy violet blankets that make a poof sound when I set her down. She falls back onto the mattress and rolls onto her side, curling into a ball.

  “Okay, so, you’re good. I’ll just—”

  She grabs my wrist, stopping the words in my throat. “Stay.”

  What? This girl doesn’t know me from Adam. “I don’t think your parents will approve.”

  She frowns and shakes her head, then says into the pillow, “Not home. Paris.”

  I sigh and look around the room, trying to decide what the hell I’m supposed to do. She’s home. Safe. That’s enough. She’ll wake up in the morning and forget all this, thinking one of her clever rich buddies brought her home—the same ones that nearly raped her in an alley.

  Her naïveté makes my chest tight.

  She starts to sit up and moans, covering her mouth. “Oh, God, I’m gonna hurl,” she says through her fingers. Then she stumbles from the bed before I can help her and starts crawling to a doorway on my left—probably a bathroom.

  I grab her and lead her to the toilet, barely making it before she explodes again.

  Lovely.

  I hold her hair, vaguely noticing its strawberry strands twisted around my fingers. I rub her back and curse myself for caring about her at all. She wouldn’t be so eager to hang with me if she was in her right mind.

  We sit there for what feels like hours, her body trying to rid itself of poison. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or drugs those bastards might’ve slipped in her drink, but she’s going to regret it in the morning either way.

  After a while, the convulsions subside and her breathing evens out. She’s falling asleep with her head on the toilet. I nudge her a little and help her wipe her mouth with some toilet paper.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” she slurs, calling me that for the second time tonight. Then she goes totally limp in my arms.

  I immediately check her pulse and her breathing; both seem normal. She’s just passed out. Hopefully.

  I wait a second to see if she’ll wake up and barf again, but it seems she’s done for now, so I carry her back to the bed. I lay her down and then just stare at her: her pale brow, beaded with sweat, her fluttering eyelids, purple-lined lips.

  I can’t leave her alone like this.

  Shit.

  I go downstairs to find the kitchen and get her a glass of water for when she wakes up. The hum in the air grows a little when I walk into the large room. The family must’ve had the argument in here over bowls of tofu and grapefruit.

  By the hum, it feels like the argument was at least a few days ago. Makes me wonder how long she’s been alone.

  I shake off the questions and get the glass of water, then head back upstairs. I set the glass on the bedside table, suddenly feeling completely out of my element.

  I haven’t been in a home for so long, I almost forgot what it’s like. I’ve been in houses, but not homes. I lived in houses—too many—with roofs and walls and anger and darkness and bruises. But I haven’t been in a home for . . . well, since Ava lived with the Marshalls. After they adopted her, I got to visit a few times.

  Then they were dead. And there was only a nine-year-old, blood-splattered Ava left behind, her eyes so big and blue that night, looking like they held all the pain of the world in them. Her tiny hands and arms were coated in crimson to the elbow from the spell she’d done to protect herself.

  Now she lives with a foster family—her third one in three years. She gets to be passed around from house to house, like I did all those years. No more home.

  Supposedly my mom, Fiona O’Linn, had family in the city a long time ago—grandparents, I think. But if they’re alive, they haven’t done anything to help me and Ava. And I’m not sure I’d even want Ava to have anything to do with the people who raised my mom. Fiona was broken inside, and they did nothing to save her.

  I run my fingers over Rebecca’s desk. It’s covered in notebooks and colored pencils, smears of paint and ink. There’s a collage of photos above it on the wall. A boy with dimples and freckles and sun-bleached red hair is in several of them. In the most prominent picture, he has a surfboard under one arm and a girl who looks like a younger version of Rebecca under the other; she’s looking up at him like he’s made of gold. There are photos of other people, too—normal high school kids, raising red plastic cups or making funny faces. Everyone’s hugging, laughing, living life in bright colors.

  I look over the rest of the room. There’s an empty easel in the corner. A few posters on the walls of singers like Adele and Florence and the Machine, and movies like The Notebook and Twilight.

  Then I notice something on the floor. In the far corner beside the easel are bits of paper scattered everywhere. I go over and pick up one of the larger scraps. It’s a fragment of artwork—part of a wing. Yellows and blues rage in the background. I stare for a second at the other pieces by my feet. Drawings of some kind, all torn up. The sight makes me feel uneasy, but I’m not sure why.

  I put the scrap of paper back on the floor with the rest of the pile. Then I go to the small bookshelf and look at the titles. My eyes glaze over the teen romances and vampire novels, until they find something more palatable: Les Misérables. I sit on the floor and lean my back against the side of the bed, telling myself not to get too comfortable.

  Mom’s sitting in her pentagram on the floor, black candles resting on each point of the star. The shifting flames make the light look like it’s dancing on the walls in deep oranges and reds as she whispers in Latin, a benediction.

  My insides go cold, but I stand and watch, shivering in the doorway as the darkness comes alive. I’m only six. And it’s my mom. She knows my secrets, my terrors. She wouldn’t do anything wrong . . .

  FOUR

  Something pokes my cheek.

  I blink and squint at the sunlight beaming into the room. Did I fall asleep?

  Something pokes again. “Hey!”

  I look up and see the girl, Rebecca, holding a pencil with one of those frizzy-haired trolls on the end. Her own hair is in a nest of red tangles, her green eyes are rimmed red from last night’s drama, and she’s got glittery lip gloss smeared down her chin. She’s frowning at me, body tense. She looks pissed.

  “Who the hell are you?” There’s a phone in her other hand, held like a weapon.

  I scramble up and back away. “Did you call the cops?” My legs get ready to bolt.

  She looks down at the phone like she forgot she’s holding it, then back at me. “Maybe.”

  I relax a little, seeing the red spark of the lie in her eyes. “Maybe not,” I say, raising my brow at her.

  She chews on her bottom lip. “You brought me home? That was you last night?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Do you remember anything?”

  “Some,” she says. “Thanks . . .”

  “I live to serve.” I give her a mocking bow and start to leave the room, ready to get back to where I know the rules.

  “Wait.”

  I pause in the doorway. She’s pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s trying to hold back pain.

  “Don’t go,” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just hold on.” She groans and falls back down on the bed. “God, my head is pounding.”

  “Drink some water, it’ll help.”
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  She squints at me, so I point at the glass I’d set beside her bed. She looks at it for so long that I start to worry. Then—God, help me—a tear slips from her eye.

  All I can do is stand there, shifting my feet, unsure how to react. After a few seconds of silence I say, “Listen, I’m sorry if I scared you. I meant to be gone before you woke up. I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”

  She wipes the tear away and sits up, taking the glass in her hand. It trembles in her grip as she lifts it to her mouth. When the water’s gone she sets the glass back on the side table and then stares at the floor.

  I can’t stand the awkward anymore, so I motion to the door and say, “I’ll just—”

  “No. Please.” She looks up at me. “I can’t be alone.”

  Seriously? This girl needs a lecture about being too familiar with strangers. Maybe I should sing her that “Stranger Danger” song you’re supposed to learn in kindergarten.

  “I don’t bite, I swear,” she adds.

  “How’re you so sure that I don’t?”

  She lays back on the bed again and stares at the ceiling. “I don’t care.”

  Something is very wrong here. I try to feel for spirits or old emotions again, something to point at why she looks so lost, why she doesn’t care about herself, but there’s just that distant hum in the air.

  “I can’t stay,” I say. I need to check on Ava this morning before she goes to the academy.

  Rebecca doesn’t move.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I add. “You should be more careful, Rebecca.”

  She startles at the sound of her name and sits up. “How . . . ?”

  “Your license. The same way I knew where you lived. Like I said, you need to be more careful.”

  She seems to settle. “My name’s not Rebecca. Well, it is, but everyone calls me Emery.”

  I look her over. “Rebecca suits you better.”

  Her eyes go glassy again, and another tear slips down her cheek.

  “Or not.”

  “You could take a shower,” she says, like she’s looking for a different subject. She motions to her bathroom. “You can shave, or whatever. I might be able to find some clothes that’ll fit you.”