Darkside Sun (Entangled Embrace)

by Adams, Jocelyn

  “You’ll find I get away with whatever I please. I’d suggest not testing it.” He reclaimed his cushy leather chair, throwing the last of his sweet-smelling alcohol down in one swallow, all casual as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Maybe for him this was a daily occurrence, scaring the flipping heck out of people.

  He lounged against the armrest again, using a finger to swipe on another layer of balm from that green tin that smelled of coconuts. Some men might have appeared girly or vain, but the way he moved was all predator and sensual grace.

  I tugged at my collar. Was it getting warm in here? I’d have bet those full lips were kissably soft and oh-so-demanding. Huh? I scrubbed that thought from my head, stunned that it had taken a random trot through my brain.

  “What’s with you and that stuff, anyway?” I asked.

  Returning the tin to his pocket, he said, “I spend a lot of time in the cold.”

  I squinted at that one. “Cold? But it’s April. It’s not that cold out.”

  A smile slid across those lips, as if he’d made a joke I didn’t get. “Describe exactly what you felt that led up to your less-than-graceful swan dive over the seats.”

  Oh, crap.

  Too tired, too freaked out, I couldn’t dissect how he knew about the thing trying to get into our world, but he did. No point in dragging it out when clearly the jig was up. I told him about the drops in temperature. I told him how it only seemed to happen in the rooms I spent the most time in, like my bedroom at home, my classes at school in my hometown, the studio where I took gymnastics, and now my dorm room. “It’s never happened in your class before today,” I finished, feeling strangely unburdened having spoken it out loud. “And I’ve never seen Mr. Bugman before today, though I was pretty sure there was someone all along who’d been pulling on that thread that opens the veil.”

  He lurched forward again, hands flat on the desk. His eyes went moonstruck, glittering with interest. “You saw it? Truly saw it? Or only sensed it?”

  Somewhere in the pit of my stomach, I knew what I said would decide his next move, whether it was to cap me or shove me out the door. Honesty never hurt anyone, right? “I don’t want to tell you.”

  One second, he’d been sitting. The next, he shot around the desk and stood before me, leaning forward until we were nose to nose. For a second, I wondered if he’d kiss me before my danger sirens shouted in my head loud enough that I rejoined reality.

  I sat there, taking short breaths, wondering if he’d really do what his I-am-demon-hear-me-roar expression threatened. Nah. Professors didn’t kill their students in my reality.

  Just like insect men and other worlds beyond ours don’t exist, my voice of reason told me. It could shut the hell up.

  “What did you see?” he asked, the muscles in his arrogant jaw straining. Nothing about him seemed human. Beautiful, but not human. Sociopath? Assassin for the gods? Jesus.

  I told him about the half-man half-bug. “It was pawing that redhead, Whatshername, from Woodstock,” I whispered, glad I could talk around the knot in my throat. “Then it came and sniffed my neck.”

  He straightened and took a step back, his expression blank. “Did it see you? Did it know you saw it?”

  No flinching, no shock. He did know about them. Hot damn, I wasn’t the only freak on the wrong side of the crazy door. “What is it? What does it want?”

  With the gentleness of a raging bull, he spun away, pacing a short circuit in front of my chair. Those jade-blue eyes traced me up and down, appraising, as if he stared at a piece of art and wondered if it’d be worth the price on the tag. He didn’t seem impressed. Probably my bargain-rack outfit. Or my non-supermodel body, lack of makeup, and plain-Jane hair that had never been cut by a professional. I wasn’t fat, but I certainly wasn’t rail-thin, either. Sturdy, my Uncle Oliver called me. For the first time, I wished I’d taken better care of myself and opened a fashion magazine once in a while. God, why did I even care?

  He tugged at the collar of his Oxford shirt, his other hand propped on his hip. For a moment, I could have sworn he was afraid, but boots didn’t fear anything an ant could tell them. He did the stomping. The rest of us did the squishing beneath his heel. It was the way of the world.

  “How do I stop this from happening?” I asked. “What are they?”

  “Don’t move from this spot,” he said.

  I stood and opened my mouth to ask him what in hell’s half acre was going on, but something cold rolled along my skin, sucking the words out of my head.

  We stood in a beating heart. Or … no, it was only inside of me. Or was it?

  Each thump hit me from the inside like a concussion wave, just like in my room earlier, only stronger by an order of magnitude. I could hear nothing with my ears, only the pressing of something against my flesh, like the vibration of hard rock music. I thought maybe I should scream and run for the hills, but the air seemed too thick to move through.

  My arms were lead. Legs welded in place. The beating pulse grew and grew into something large and overwhelming, spreading through me like warm fingers that passed through flesh and bone.

  Seconds passed, and I could breathe again if I concentrated hard enough, but everything appeared distorted. He moved, or a blur of him did. Must have been a trick of my eyes. There was two of everything in the room. What a trip, throwing off my equilibrium enough that my stomach clenched.

  A larger room appeared to overlay the small office, its window in a different place. The new desk was larger and still spotless, but maybe mahogany instead of cherry. He reached up to the second-from-the-top shelf of the bookcase nearest the window and came down with a thick leather-bound book that appeared ancient and worn.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be terrified, giddy, or relieved that I had finally lost my mind and would soon dwell in blissful insanity within my cardboard-box house nestled under a bridge somewhere.

  I wanted to know what was in that book, who Green really was, how he knew so much about the rifts, and everything about the nasty who’d sniffed my hair. Curiosity killed the cat and, maybe soon, the Addison.

  The double-image flattened into a single one again as we returned to the office in the AL. My grip on the nearest bookcase kept me from pulling a Fainting Fanny. “What just happened?” I asked. “Who are you?” I wasn’t sure how many more psychotic surprises I could take.

  With the oversized book clutched under one arm, he snatched up my pack from the floor with his free hand and opened the buckle. “You will take this volume back to your room and read it cover to cover. No skipping sections no matter how boring they may be to your pea-brain. Can you manage that?”

  I felt my answering frown pinch the skin between my eyes. “After so long of hoping there might be someone I could talk to about this, why do you have to be a total ass-face?” I flinched at the razorblades in my tone. I’d never spoken to authority figures like that. Even-keeled, that’s me. Something about Green ripped off my civilized front and set my inner beast loose.

  He laughed, then, one sharp crack of sound that rallied the hairs on my nape and sent warmth for a lazy stroll through my girl bits. “Perhaps you’re not a total lost cause, Plaid. There’s a bit of nerve hidden in your small-town mind.” Once he placed the book into my pack—it just barely fit, it was so huge—he re-buckled it and slid it over my shoulders while my lungs went on vacation. I couldn’t get over the fact that he’d laughed at all, or that his voice seemed to tweak parts of my body I didn’t realize could be tweaked with my clothes on.

  “Stop calling me Plaid. And I don’t have a small-town mind.” Okay, so I did, but I still didn’t want him to say it like that, all insulting.

  Gripping my pack, he used it to shove me not-so-gently to the door. When I reached out for the knob, he put his hand against the door to hold it shut. “If you tell anyone you have this book, have seen this book, or show it to another soul, I will kill you and whoever you show it to. Nod if you understand.”

  Did he just sa
y he’d kill me? No, hard of hearing, that’s all. Just in case, I nodded and asked, “Did you kill Kyle Whatshisname? Is that why he’s not around anymore?”

  Green made a small noise, and my blood chilled when I realized it had been a dark, sinister laugh that seemed so wrong after what I’d asked. A professor at my university would kill me over the book, and maybe he’d killed Kyle before me.

  Mind. Blown.

  I had no doubt he’d do it. Nobody could be that good of an actor to pull off demon-does-sociopath. He would kill me somehow—messily, painfully, and slowly, no doubt. Jesus. Which meant, no matter how strongly my curiosity wanted me to devour that book, it was too dangerous. I had enough danger in my life.

  “I don’t want it,” I said, proud my voice didn’t shake like the rest of me. “Take it out of my bag. If you’re willing to kill someone to protect it, then I’m out.”

  “How is it we’ve been talking for ten minutes and you still believe you have a choice in the matter? You will read it, and you will read it tonight. When you’ve cured yourself of ignorance, you will return here and tell me what you’ve learned.” Something tugged gently on my braid, and he sighed. Why was he touching my hair?

  Needing to know what look he had on his face, I turned to meet those star-bright eyes and wondered if they’d been the last thing Kyle had seen before Green had bricked him into a wall in the basement of the AL. A random thought, that his face would make a pretty good last sight before the end, flitted through my mind before I gave myself a mental slap. His expression was stone cold blank, so I must have imagined him pawing me.

  Of all the questions I could have asked, “What if I finish at four in the morning?” came out.

  “Then you will march your rear back here at four in the morning.” He flashed a crooked grin at me. “What part of this are you not getting?”

  “Who are you?” I whispered, turning back to the door. He could make fun of me, but I didn’t have to watch. “Who are you really? You’re not any professor of anthropology, right?”

  Leaning down to my right ear, he whispered, “Go. Read. Keep it out of sight. Come back when you’re done. Have I put it in simple enough terms for you, Plaid?”

  Caught in a shiver he induced in me, I threw my elbow sideways. He grunted and stepped back. “Fine, I’ve got it. You don’t have to be such a giant prick.”

  Throwing open the door, I marched through and didn’t stop until I made it out of the AL and into the … night? “What. The. Hell?” I’d been in Green’s office … what … ten minutes? I’d gone to class at quarter to nine in the morning. We’d only gotten two hours of the lecture in before Mr. Bug-Ass sent me over the seats, which put us at ten-thirty. It should have been no later than eleven in the morning, so why was the moon grinning at me through the trees?

  I shoved back my sleeve, the fabric still damp from the creepy Bugman snow. My watch read 9:08, as in p.m. A guy and a girl jogged along Ring Road, his loud bray of laughter snapping me out of my shock.

  I’d never lost time before today, and now it had happened twice. Probably should have mentioned it to my psycho prof. On second thought, forget that. He didn’t tell me diddly-squat, so I’d return the favor.

  The package he’d put in my pack suddenly weighed a million pounds. If I read it, nothing would be the same. All of the answers I’d speculated about since I was little and staring at my unraveling classroom ceiling were at my fingertips. Along with crippling fear came anticipation, thick and heady and undeniable. I was going to read the bloody thing, every page. And I would find out why Green seemed more like an egotistical piece of eye-candy than someone who should be lecturing eighteen-year-olds.

  I headed back to V2 as if I carried a load of nitroglycerine instead of leather and pages. Hopefully Ava had hooked up with some idiot as she often did. Tonight I wouldn’t judge her. We all had our priorities. For her sake, I needed her in some other room for the night.

  What would be inside those yellowing pages?

  Everything.

  Chapter 4

  I pulled the lanyard laden with keys from under my shirt and unlocked the door to my room. Ear pressed against the steel, I stopped to listen.

  Blissful silence within. Somebody loved me.

  I slipped inside, smashing my palm against the light switch. The fluorescent in the ceiling buzzed to life, blinding me. I’d never been a fan of the dark, but after my up-close-and-personal with the yummy Green and his frightening Mr. Hyde other half, I liked it even less.

  Bone-jarring bass thumped to life in the room next to mine as I locked myself in. Muted giggles trickled under my door as a gaggle of girls headed out, probably to the pub on campus. As long as they didn’t come in my room, they could go to Mars for all I cared.

  After setting my pack with care on my plaid comforter—I was so happy Green would never see my bedroom since he clearly had something against plaid—I glanced up to make sure the walls and ceiling were still whole. They were. A peek through Ava’s door confirmed she wasn’t in there boning some random guy.

  Even alone in my tiny room with only my metal Ikea desk, chair, bed, and shelf full of books, I still felt exposed. Kneeling before my bed, I pulled out my survival kit. Yes, I was a Girl Guide once upon a time, so sue me. I dug through the bandages, alcohol swabs, and the sewing kit to locate my red, pen-sized Mag flashlight Gramps had given me before he died.

  Another check of the room. Still alone. I pinched the lit flashlight between my lips, un-wedged the massive book from my pack, and crawled under my comforter. I crossed my legs, my body acting as a tent pole. It was dark and exactly a million degrees under the fluff and puff, but I felt safer under there. Just like old times when I’d sneaked into our library at home to fill my head with knowledge long after little girls should have been tucked into bed.

  From under my pillow, I pulled out my baby blanket with its pink silk edging and draped it around my neck like a tiny, tattered scarf. The silk and softness chased back my anxiety, soothed better than anything. It still smelled like home, like Dad.

  Arms trembling, I finally allowed myself to look at the book sitting on the sheet in front of me. I palmed the light and leaned over the book cover. The leather had that mottled appearance, faded at the edges where many hands had rested where mine didn’t yet dare to. A border had been tooled around the perimeter: intricate scroll patterns with runes I didn’t recognize woven in almost as if the artist didn’t want anyone to notice they were there. A pair of intertwined, ornate Ms were carved into the center.

  The spine had to have been four inches thick. Gold hinges and a clasp—and I was pretty sure it was pure and not plated given the weight of the book—kept the pages sealed against the world. And was that a lock?

  I poked at the book, recoiling as if it would turn into one of those Harry Potter deals and gnaw my arm off. When it didn’t so much as growl at me, I ran my finger lightly around the edge of the top cover and tried to lift, but it didn’t budge. “Oh, nice, you jerk. You gave me the book but not the key. Very damn funny.”

  Gripping the tome in one hand, I tilted it up and turned it around under my light. At least a quarter of the pages were ripped out, leaving only jagged edges behind. No hidden compartments or obvious ways in. Could I pick the lock? My curiosity had grown into an unstoppable force, so I had to do something.

  I slipped out of the covers, leaving the book under them. Air, glorious air. I sucked in a lungful as I drew out my kit again, withdrawing my Swiss Army knife. Lip caught between my teeth, I considered how much of a cow Green would have if I marred up the lock on his precious book. I shrugged. Served him right for not giving me the key. If he wanted me to read the thing, it was either jimmy the lock or troop back to his office. Didn’t take me long to decide that one.

  I sifted through the tools on my knife and came up with the corkscrew. Not that I knew diddley-doo-dah about lock-picking, but it seemed a logical place to start. I resumed my position in my bed-tent, turned the book on its spine, and
flashed the light on to the gleaming lock. Seemed a shame to wreck it.

  When I passed my finger over the tiny keyhole, a sharp pain ripped through my hand. I jerked back, leaving a perfect ruby drop of blood on the gold, though I couldn’t see anything obvious that might have cut me. Nausea rolled my stomach. Blood and I never got along when we were in the same room together.

  Groaning, I sucked on my finger. As I watched, my blood slipped into the lock, uphill, as if the keyhole had its own gravity. A click, and the freakin’ thing unlocked, though the cover remained closed. I could have sworn the veins in my hand glowed midnight blue for a second, but I blinked and the color disappeared.

  “Jesus. Vampire book.” I inched away from the tome. The top cover fell open on its own. Every hair on my body sat up and paid attention. I’d never heard of a book needing a blood sacrifice to open it. Hindu, Greco-Roman, Celtic, Maya, and Inca legends talked of such sacrifices, only it was usually the whole person. Weird.

  I leaned over the pages again. The title page read, “Mortal Machine.”

  “Mortal Machine,” I said, testing the weight of the words on my tongue. A rush of cold air ruffled my makeshift tent, and the covers blew outward, which meant it wasn’t a draft from outside. I scrambled out from under them again. Had it come from the book? Or from me?

  “What the bloody hell is Mortal Machine?” I asked my poster of The Castle, Chichen Itza, the most famous of the Mayan Ruins in Mexico, which was taped to the wall. The poster didn’t answer me. It never did. You’d think I’d stop asking it stupid questions, but I didn’t.

  I’d never been a big believer in the whole druid-power-in-the-blood-and-ritual thing, but if reality could unravel like cheap cotton and spill out a bugman, I could buy that other stuff might be real, too. Had it been my blood that had invoked whatever had just whistled through my bed like a winter wind? Or speaking the name of the book? No, that couldn’t be right or it would have happened again while I conversed with my poster. Jeez, could Green not have given me a manual for it? He was probably over there in his office yukking it up while he got wasted on whiskey.