Darkness Brutal (The Dark Cycle Book 1)

by Rachel A. Marks

  “She told me you’d take me with you now,” Ava says. “That last night was a warning, and it’s time to stop hiding.”

  That’s new. “She did?”

  “She also said . . .” Ava scrunches up her face.

  “What?”

  “It was strange. She said—” She pulls away and studies me. “Well, I think part of it was about your dad.”

  I go still, and everything slows around me.

  Ava squeezes my hand, urgency filling her voice. “Do you think she was good, Aidan?”

  I don’t know what she means. I’m stuck on the word dad.

  “If our mom was evil, maybe we shouldn’t listen to her,” she says.

  “What’d she say about my dad, Ava?” If I’ve learned anything in this life, it’s this: listen to Ava’s dreams.

  She looks at our clasped hands.

  “Her exact words were: Your brother is growing in his gift of the in-between, but he doesn’t know which way to walk the line. The Light he found will lead him; its wings sit beneath the heart. But he must touch the violets and lilies to find surrender, to find his hidden blood.”

  Damn riddles. “What about my dad?” I ask.

  “That’s the hidden blood, I think, because next she said: The father’s place is another time, the son is becoming Fire Bringer. I guess that’s you. Fire Bringer—whatever that means. And your gift is something called the in-between? I dunno.” She shrugs, looking as lost as I feel.

  I rub her shoulder in comfort, resisting the urge to shake sense from her. She’s just a kid. Only the messenger. She doesn’t understand it any more than I do.

  Ava and I are different. She has Fiona’s gifts. I don’t. Not even one.

  Which makes me assume that my own shit—knowing all those weird languages, seeing people’s souls on their skin, seeing demons and angels and ghosts, the ability to feel certain energies—must come from my dad.

  I want to know who my dad is—or was?—but I’m terrified at the same time. What if he was something wicked? Something wrong? The truth might be worse than not knowing anything at all.

  “I wish this stuff came with instructions like that TiVo thing that Mr. Marshall bought me,” Ava says.

  “Yeah.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, until she leans into me and says, “You’ll find him, Aidan. I know you will.”

  That’s exactly what I’m worried about.

  SIX

  I’ve been trying to deny it. I told myself we’d have time, that maybe nothing would happen this year, or maybe the angel would come, but deep inside I know. Someone else will die. The demons will get their claws into her one way or another. Unless I do something.

  As I leave Ava’s neighborhood, I finger the paper in my pocket, the one with the number that Hanna gave me. I could check it out. Some steady cash, maybe? Just enough to get us on our feet before the bomb drops.

  I have to try.

  The area code is in LA. I punch the number into my phone, and the line rings once, then a voice mail picks up. A female voice comes through the speaker: “You’ve reached the Los Angeles Paranormal Investigative Agency. Are your troubles falling into the ‘strange’ or ‘unexplained’ category? Don’t be afraid to reach out. We can help. Please leave your name and number and a short summary of your case. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Peace be with you.”

  Paranormal investigating? What? I punch the number in again and listen to the message a second time. That’s what it says. And it doesn’t sound like a joke by the tone.

  It has to be a front for some con or something.

  But I’m sort of out of options at this point. I need help, and Hanna seems to trust this guy, Sid. He must be the head of the . . . ghostbusters, or whatever. I could leave a message on the voice mail and hope I get a call back. But I’m not sure I have time for formalities. Plus, I won’t know if I can trust the guy unless I get a look at him, a feel for his energy.

  I do a reverse search on the cell number and get a recent address. I catch the bus into downtown, passing under the 101, where these old buildings from the forties and fifties are nestled farther back. I get off at a stop on Hollywood Boulevard near Prospect and start my walk farther into the neighborhood. The buildings come in all shapes and sizes—apartments, old hotels, restaurants, and some houses. There’s a library and a place that looks like an art gallery. After several more blocks I come to the address I’m looking for, on the corner of two tree-lined streets.

  It has a white picket fence—that’s the first thing I notice. A thin house with two stories and what looks like an attic room for a third floor. The style is Victorian, and it’s recently been fixed up with new windows and new paint: canary-yellow for the siding, white for the trim, and red for the door. The small grassy area out front is actually green, even in a drought, growing in emerald patches on either side of a new brick pathway that winds up to the wraparound porch. The whole look is topped off with a white bench swing, creaking in the early Santa Ana winds, beside a pot of pink geraniums.

  It’s like I’m looking at an old TV set from a fifties show or something. It’s so normal. Too normal.

  I’m torn for a second, thinking I must have the wrong place. I glance up and down the street. Weeds are growing in the cracks on the patchwork sidewalk, a rusty tricycle is tipped over in the gutter. Not exactly high-end living. But whoever this guy is, he must take care of his stuff. And I don’t hear gunshots, so that’s a bonus.

  I pull the hamsa Hanna gave me out of the old jeans in my backpack and slip the chain over my head, feeling a little better when the charm settles against my chest. I watch the house for a few more minutes and then decide to take my shot and see what I can get out of this.

  A job. Money. A place for Ava and me to stay. Together. That’s what I need to focus on.

  I hover on the porch for a second, feeling around for spirits, but it’s all just emotions on the wind. So I knock.

  The door swings open, and a black guy about the same age as me is there in the doorway.

  “What?” he asks, looking me up and down. I do the same to him. He’s got to be about sixteen, wearing skinny jeans that exaggerate his height and lankiness, with well-trimmed hair, thick-rimmed glasses, and spiked gauges in his ears. A young Lenny Kravitz without the dreads.

  Before I can say anything, he’s shoved out of the way.

  “What kind of way is that to answer the door?” A second kid is standing in the doorway now. He can’t be more than fourteen, dark hair, wide chocolate eyes—Indian, maybe—and feet too big for his short body. He gives me a wide grin. “How might we help you?”

  The first boy snorts and peeks back around the door. “You’ve really gotta stop reading all that Charles Dick crap, Lester. You sound like a freak show.”

  Lester’s smile vanishes, and he turns to the older boy. “Just ’cause you can’t read anything but Playboy—”

  “Which is very educational, by the way. You could learn a thing or two from me about life, Lester the lezzy-boy, who can’t get a girl to save his—”

  The taller boy is silenced with a sock to the gut by Lester. The two collide, shoving, stumbling back with umphs and grunts and a little laughter on the taller boy’s part.

  “Seriously,” a girl’s voice says from the shadows. “Grow up.” A small hand shoos the two tussling boys back into the shadows of the house.

  Her full form appears in the doorway.

  I step back in reaction, a sudden jolt of recognition coursing through me. But then it fades as quick as it came. If I do feel something familiar, I can’t place it.

  Her hair is long, dark, and wild. Her large eyes are rimmed in black eyeliner; there’s no other makeup on her heart-shaped face. She’s small, only five three maybe. A thin reed of a thing. Not exactly goth, but not really punk either, with tall boots over tight black
jeans and a Nirvana tank top.

  “Hey.” She looks me over, her light eyes curious. But I feel an undercurrent, a buzzing around her, like she’s anxious about me, the same as I seem to be about her. “Sid isn’t home. But you can come in, or whatever.”

  “What in God’s name is going on down there?” Another female voice comes from inside the house. “It sounds like Bonkey Kong in stereo. I’m trying to study!”

  Boots Girl rolls her eyes and calls, “Earbuds, Holly. Remember?” Then she turns back to me. “You comin’ in or what?”

  I hesitate. I don’t sense anything horrid.

  Actually, I don’t sense much of anything at all—which in itself is weird. I usually sense something. Even if it’s just a memory or an emotion. And this place certainly looks like it’s not lacking in either of those things. But it’s almost like the air is muffled or fogged up here. Not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

  I decide to throw caution to the wind. I nod at Boots Girl and step into the house.

  “I’m Kara,” she says as I follow her into the main room. She waves at the back hall where the two boys went. “That was Lester and Jax. They’ll say hi later.”

  We pass a couch, and she points at a mound on the end. “Finger doesn’t talk much, but there he is.” Not a mound. A very round boy, hunched over an Xbox remote. His eyes are trained on the flat-screen TV on the other side of the room. A tangle of greasy brown hair tops his head. His focused features are badly pockmarked. A bag of Funyuns is spilling out onto the floor next to him.

  Kara adds, “That’s not his usual space. He camps out in the basement, but lately Sid wants him socializing more with the rest of the house, so . . . well, that’s Finger socializing.” She shrugs and heads up the stairs.

  “Listen,” I say. It suddenly feels like she’s giving me a tour. “I’m not sure who you think I am, but—”

  “That’s Holly’s room,” she says, ignoring me and pointing at a closed door across from the head of the stairs. “She’s high strung and very weird about her hair products, so it’s best if you just steer clear of any bottles in the bathroom. Mark your soap and keep it in your own room. Which is . . .” She pauses, scanning the doors. “That one.” She nods at the door at the far end of the hall. “You’re next to me.” She chews on her lip, looking nervous, and then she turns to head toward the door of my room.

  I touch her shoulder, stopping her. “I just want to talk to Sid.”

  She blinks up at me. “I know.” Her voice shakes a little, and a slight current runs up my arm from where my fingers grazed her skin.

  I pull away, and we just stand there looking at each other.

  She felt it, too.

  “Do I know you?” I finally ask.

  She licks her lips, and a dimple sinks into her cheek.

  My memory flashes again, this time with details: lights and music and heat.

  “You don’t remember me?” she whispers. Her head tilts a little, and she’s suddenly closer. “I’m hurt.” Her energy is thick in the air around me now, like she’s spread herself out, a cloud of energy and static, prickling against my skin. “I could remind you.”

  And then I smell it: green apple Jolly Ranchers.

  The club. The girl. The kiss.

  I jerk back so hard I nearly fall down the stairs.

  She raises her brow. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  The urge to run away vibrates through me . . . along with the urge to press her into the wall, kiss her, touch her, dive into her . . . or dive down the stairs headfirst to escape.

  “What the hell are you?” she asks.

  The exact same question is on my tongue.

  Then she lets out a forced laugh and holds her hands up. “I should be insulted, but I’m more impressed than anything.” She waves for me to follow and heads down the hall. “I mean, the other boys, I have to pretty much threaten to cut their balls off if they touch me. I can see you won’t be a problem.” She laughs again.

  She’s terrifying. I cannot live here with this girl. What is she? I’m suddenly sure she’s not a regular human.

  “All in time, sweetie. All in time,” she says, like she can read my mind.

  “I’m just here for Sid,” I say again.

  I should go. Forget this. I’ll get help another way.

  She leans on the doorjamb of my room. “You don’t need to bolt. Really. I promise to never kiss you again.” She waves her hand and adds, “Or whatever.”

  And the air settles, like she flipped off a switch.

  I shift my feet, unsure of the right move.

  Her face grows serious. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I really didn’t mean to. It was just, well, you feel it, too; I know you do. And come on. Even you have to admit that kiss last night was pretty damn well off the charts.”

  Something surfaces in my head, a knowledge about her: she doesn’t smile much. She doesn’t feel comfortable being happy.

  She smiled last night, though. I remember it now. That grin that made her blue eyes lighten. And she had a thin blue energy and a glowing tattoo on the back of her neck. But I don’t see that now.

  I let myself look at her, really look at her. Her hair’s dyed black, with a violet tint in the light. It’s in low, messy pigtails, resting in layers on her chest. She’s got earbuds hanging around her neck, and there’s an ever-so-faint beat coming out of them. She looks casual, bored at first glance, but there’s a tension under the surface; her jaw is clenched just a little too much.

  And then I see the markings, not on her flesh, but on her soul. Her skin is covered. But not in Chinese symbols. In handprints. The darkest one is almost turning her skin red, firm around her throat.

  My own throat goes tight with the knowledge of what that means.

  Rape.

  Then there are scars. Real ones. Lots of them. Thick scars up the inside of her arms, wrist to elbow.

  I’ve seen so many souls like hers in the street, wide eyes glazed, looking over their shoulders as they slip into a stranger’s car or down an alley. Demons cling to them, feeding on their sorrow and desperation, as if it’s ripe fruit ready to pluck.

  “Kara,” I say, like saying her name might heal something. My fear of her has evaporated in an instant. Whatever she is, she didn’t choose it.

  The sound of her name seems to affect her, or maybe it’s the look of knowledge on my face. She clears her throat, sticks an earbud in. “Sid’ll be home soon. You can wait downstairs.” Then she slips away into the next room, closing herself in.

  I watch her shadow move under the door. I watch it pace back and forth for several seconds.

  Then I go downstairs to wait for Sid.

  SEVEN

  I sit on the couch beside Finger and his Funyuns.

  Across the hall and through an archway, I can see Lester and Jax playing a game at the kitchen table. They keep smacking down cards and yelling out numbers and calling each other “fart nugget” and “pencil dick.” I wonder if it’s ever quiet here.

  Just as I start to think the answer is probably no, a somber-looking guy comes into the house through the back door. He’s tall and broad, maybe eighteen, with dusty-blond hair, cut neat over his ears, and a serious tan. The skin on his nose is peeling—obviously a surfer.

  “We got the job,” he says, walking into the kitchen. “Time to get to work, boys.”

  “Yes! I knew it!” Lester shouts.

  “You didn’t know anything,” Jax says.

  “The peek stone showed the outcome looking positive,” Lester says, a smug grin on his face. “And it got us the freaking Benson job.” He folds his arms across his chest.

  Jax snorts. “You mean the fucked-up Benson job. You’re just lucky that ghost had a thing for peppermint schnapps or you wouldn’t have gotten her Depression-era ass outta that sticky skin of yours, and you�
��d have been one weird Italian-Indian lady—”

  The older blond boy spots me then. He hits Jax on the arm. “Shut it. We’ve got a spec hovering.”

  All eyes fall on me. Jax leans back in his chair, giving me a harder look than he did before. “He’s waiting to see Sid. Kara let him in. She thinks he’s a keeper, Connor.” He makes a crude gesture with his hands to the older boy. “Kara likes ’em fresh and dumb.”

  “Then why’d I shoot you down, Jax?” Kara asks, coming down the stairs. She doesn’t look at me, just walks by the living room and enters the kitchen. She asks the Connor guy, “Where’s Sid?”

  Lester grins. “This new job’s a shoo-in, Kara. The peek stone said—”

  “Shut up!” Connor snaps. “We wait till Sid is here, then have a vote for a go or not, like always.” He looks at Kara and adds, “Sid’s right behind me. He just stopped to do something in the shed.” Then he looks at me. “Ten more minutes, Kara, and if Sid isn’t inside, this spec needs to be gone.”

  Kara follows his gaze. “He’s harmless, Connor. Guy doesn’t know what the hell’s going on.”

  Very true.

  Sid reminds me a little of a young used car salesman. Not just because of his suit—though it’s really nice, well fitted, and stylish. He’s got a pin-striped vest on, a thin silk tie loose at the neck, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to just below the elbow, revealing heavily tattooed forearms. He grips a black walking stick with long and delicate fingers, tapping it on the floor as he paces in a semicircle in front of me.

  He could definitely be a used car salesman, but I get the feeling I’m not a customer. I’m the car he’s trying to figure out how to sell.

  He looks like he’s in his early twenties, not much older than the blond kid, Connor. He’s medium height, with dark eyebrows and sun-kissed skin, bald as a billiard and clean shaven. His features are almost feminine, graceful. But there’s a sharp line to his hazel eyes. They cut into me, peeling back layers of my defenses until I wonder if he’s seeing me for real. Like through my skin. How I see people.