Set the Dark on Fire

by Jill Sorenson

  “Holy Christ, what a mess.”

  Luke turned to see Clay Trujillo standing at the entrance to the enclosure, flanked by two EMTs. Shay straightened self-consciously, running a trembling hand over her straggly hair. Both of the technicians kneeled next to Betty and started working to save her life. In a few moments, they had her body on a stretcher and were wheeling her away.

  “I’m going to call Mike Shepherd,” Clay muttered, shaking his head. “This is the wildest shit I’ve ever seen.”

  Luke turned his attention back to Shay, thinking she seemed a little shell-shocked, sitting quiet as a mouse next to the body of the fallen lion. He lifted her in his arms and carried her away from the grisly scene, setting her down on a garden bench near an outdoor light. Garrett was probably hollering in the back of the squad car and Luke had a lot of other responsibilities to attend to, but right now he needed to be with Shay.

  “I should check on Fernando’s kids,” she said. “He and Dylan went looking for Angel, and I promised.”

  “I’ll send someone over there in a minute,” he said, running his palm over her red-smeared cheek. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, inspecting her arms and legs. She was soaked in blood and covered with cat hair. “None of this is mine. But I must look a fright.”

  He smiled. She was almost unrecognizable, and without a doubt the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. “You look beautiful,” he said, feeling his throat close up.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m glad you came.”

  “So am I.”

  Luke couldn’t bear to think about what would have happened if he’d arrived too late. The idea of losing her was excruciating. He’d finally found what he was looking for: permanence. And he’d figured out where he belonged: with Shay.

  In her, and Tenaja Falls, he’d found home.

  “I love you,” he said, more sure of that than he’d ever been of anything.

  “You—you what?”

  “I love you,” he repeated, and nodded to himself. It felt good to be right.

  “You can’t love me. We’ve only known each other four days.”

  “It seems like forever.”

  “You’re overexcited,” she insisted. “Under too much stress. It will pass.”

  “I hope not.”

  “You want to stay crazy?”

  “Why not? Everyone else around here is.”

  “In a few weeks, you’ll be bored.”

  “Bored,” he repeated with relish. “I can’t wait.”

  She smiled at him. Her teeth, and the whites of her eyes, were very bright against her blood-streaked face. “I’ve been feeling a little stressed-out myself.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. Moistening it with water from a fountain behind her, he began to clean the grime off her face.

  “I might even be suffering from overexcitement.”

  He stilled. “Really?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, covering his hand with hers. “But as long as we’re both crazy, I guess I … I love you, too.”

  Luke was glad he’d cleared most of the blood from her face. Because, overexcited as he was, he couldn’t help but kiss her. She kissed him back with matching enthusiasm, twining her arms around his neck and threading her fingers through his hair.

  He laughed against her mouth, holding her close and savoring her abandon, deliriously happy, crazy in love.

  28

  After the uproar settled down, and life in Tenaja Falls went back to normal, Luke took her to his father’s neighborhood on the Pala reservation. He paused in front of a small, one-story house with whitewashed adobe walls and a red tile roof. Instead of stopping, he drove on, parking in the shade of an oak tree at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  He didn’t say anything, and she couldn’t guess what he was thinking, but the day was hot and Shay wanted to feel the wind on her face. Sighing with contentment, she got out of the truck and stood at the edge of the scenic overlook, watching the sunny yellow grass on the hillside below sway in the breeze.

  He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. A warm shiver traveled down her spine as he pressed his lips to the side of her neck and smoothed his hands over her lower abdomen.

  At first, she thought he was merely resting his hands in a convenient place. It took her a moment to realize the significance of the position. She turned her head to look at him, reading the question in his eyes.

  “Oh,” she said, not sure why she was blushing. “I’m not.”

  It had been about three weeks since the night Luke shot Betty’s lion. Betty was still in critical condition, not expected to live much longer. Garrett Snell was in jail awaiting trial, and Lori had filed for divorce.

  Angel had also left town. She was staying with her aunt in LA, working at a local coffeehouse and singing there on open mike night. Dylan had been moping since she’d gone, listening to dreary music and finding very little joy in life. Basketball season was over and he already had a new job working for Bull’s replacement on the construction site.

  Shay didn’t know if he enjoyed the work, but he always came home exhausted and went straight to bed. He slept so deeply she felt compelled to check on him. He never woke up when she placed her palm over his forehead, making sure he wasn’t feverish, like she’d done so many times when he was a baby.

  Speaking of babies, she and Luke hadn’t made one that night in the fertility cave. He’d been coming over every morning as soon as Dylan left for school, and some evenings, too. She wouldn’t let him spend the night, so they made the most of their stolen moments together.

  Today was Saturday, and although Dylan wasn’t home, she’d been coy with Luke this morning, shying away from his touch instead of tearing his clothes off.

  And now he knew why.

  To her amazement, he seemed disappointed. “I dreamed that you had a round belly,” he said, smiling against her neck.

  She relaxed a little, laughing. “I do have a round belly.”

  “No you don’t,” he insisted, flattening his palm over her. “This is barely a curve. And it’s very sexy.”

  “You think my armpits are sexy,” she said in a husky voice. “You’re obviously deranged.”

  Chuckling, he buried his face in her hair. “Mmm. It’s not my fault you smell so good.”

  One of their more leisurely mornings together, he’d worshipped every inch of her body with his mouth, nuzzling the sensitive skin under her arms and finding the ticklish place behind her knees, kissing the tattoo on the nape of her neck and placing his open mouth over the one at her lower back.

  He must have been thinking about that, too, because he swelled against her. “I guess it’s better this way,” he said, his breath hot on her ear. “When I ask you to marry me, I don’t want you to feel as though you have to say yes.”

  She let out a yelp of surprise and turned around to face him, her eyes wide with disbelief.

  Perhaps astonishment was the reaction he’d been hoping for, because he smiled in satisfaction. And maybe there was something more in her expression, a hint that she wasn’t averse to the idea, because she saw a flicker of intent in his eyes.

  “Don’t you dare,” she gasped, casting a nervous glance around them. If Luke Meza got down on one knee right here by the side of the road, she would have a heart attack.

  “Okay,” he agreed, laughing out loud. “I’ll buy you a ring first.”

  She gaped at him incredulously. Then, realizing she was acting as though she couldn’t believe anyone would want to marry her, she snapped her mouth shut.

  “You’d have said yes.” He seemed almost as shocked as she was.

  “Dream on,” she retorted.

  He kissed her then, quieting her sassy mouth, and she knew there was no escaping this. She would say yes. Always and forever.

  “I love you,” he said, holding her close.

  He must have spoken those words a hundred t
imes now, and they never failed to make her heart skip a beat. “I love you, too,” she murmured, returning the favor.

  Still smiling, he took her by the hand, dropping a kiss on her bare knuckles before he led her into the neighborhood where he grew up.

  It was Luke’s father they were visiting, not her own, but she was struck by a pang of nervousness all the same. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

  “Then we’ll leave,” he said, as simple as that.

  She smiled back at him, and they walked together, hand in hand, toward the past and into the future, moving forward, moving on.

  About the Author

  Jill Sorenson’s family moved from a small town in Kansas to a suburb of San Diego when she was twelve. In the past twenty years, she hasn’t lost her appreciation for sunny weather, her fascination with the Pacific Ocean, or her love for Southern California culture. She still lives in San Diego with her husband, Chris, and their two children. Jill is happily working on her next novel.

  The Edge of Night

  BY JILL SORENSON

  1

  Daniela Flores tightened her grip on the cold, wet aluminum railing, keeping her eyes on the horizon as she took slow, deep breaths.

  She wasn’t seasick. She’d been on smaller boats in rougher water than this more times than she could count. San Francisco Bay wasn’t known for smooth sailing, and many of the other passengers were feeling poorly, but Daniela’s discomfort had nothing to do with a rollicking hull, an unsteady surface, or brisk salt spray.

  Her ailment was more mental than physical. Since the accident, she disliked cramped quarters and confined spaces.

  Across the crowded cabin, past whey-faced day-trippers and sturdy-legged sailors, the open sea beckoned, mocking her with its infinite expanse. Although a boat this size wasn’t the same as a shrinking box or the crushed cab of a car, it didn’t offer a convenient escape route.

  The water here was a chilly 50 degrees.

  She much preferred the sunny beaches of San Diego, her hometown, where ocean temps hovered at an agreeable 70 degrees this time of year, or southern Mexico, her birthplace, where the sea was as warm and sultry as a hot summer night.

  In this particular area, the cold wasn’t the greatest deterrent for swimmers. Her destination, twenty-seven miles off the coast of San Francisco, was a seldom visited place called the Farallones. The islands were home to many endangered animals, including the subject of her current research project, the Steller sea lion.

  They were also surrounded by great white sharks.

  The captain’s intercom crackled with distortion as he made an announcement. “Devil’s Teeth, dead ahead.”

  The Farallones had earned this moniker a hundred years ago from the fishermen and egg collectors who dared eke out a living here. With no docking facilities, the rocky crags were inhospitable in the extreme, rising from the sea in a jumble of sharp, serrated edges. Although teeming with animal life, every nook and cranny filled with birds and seals and sea lions, the surface area was devoid of greenery.

  During the spring the islands were grassy and lush, dotted with small shrubs and speckled with wildflowers. Now, in late September, the salt-sprayed granite was noticeably bare, picked as clean as old bones.

  Daniela watched the godforsaken place materialize before her with a mixture of dread and anticipation. On this cold, gray day, the islands were shrouded by fog, cloaked in mystery. If anything, the landscape was even less appealing than the pictures she’d seen. And yet, she could make out the pale brown coat of a Steller sea lion, reclining near the top of a cliff like a king lording over his realm.

  Her heart began to race with excitement, thudding in her chest. The Farallones were a wildlife researcher’s dream come true. Surely she could set aside her phobia and enjoy her stay here. Six weeks of uninterrupted study were almost impossible to come by, and she’d been waiting over a year for this unique opportunity.

  Whenever she was feeling closed in, she would do her breathing exercises. She would stay focused on the present rather than letting the trauma of the past overwhelm her, blurring the edges of her vision and squeezing the air from her lungs. She would keep her eyes on the horizon and her feet planted firmly on the ground.

  As they drew closer to the main island, she noticed a single house. It was a large, ramshackle dwelling, built over a century ago for light keepers and their families. The old Victorian stood stark and lonely on the only flat stretch of terrain, an ordinary structure on alien landscape. Like a gas station on the moon.

  “Looks cozy, don’t it?”

  The deckhand’s voice startled her. She dragged her gaze from the whitewashed house to his wind-chafed face. “Cozier than a tent in Antarctica,” she replied, reminding herself that she’d braved fiercer conditions before.

  He gave her another once-over and grunted, jerking his chin toward the shore. “They’ll be coming for you now.”

  She caught a glimpse of two dark figures walking along a footpath etched into the side of the cliff, a few hundred yards from the house. With no docking facilities, setting foot on the island was a tricky process. The research biologists had access to a beat-up Boston whaler, which was hoisted above the surface of the water by a formidable-looking crane.

  At a mere fifteen feet, the boat was shorter than a full-grown great white.

  While she watched, one of the figures boarded the whaler, and the other lowered it to the pounding surf below. In a few efficient moments, the boat was speeding out to pick her up.

  “Don’t panic now,” she whispered, squaring her shoulders.

  The man driving the boat brought it alongside the charter and killed the engine, exchanging a friendly greeting with another crew member.

  When he stood, throwing the deckhand a rope to tie off the whaler, she studied him with unabashed curiosity. His legs were covered by dark, waterproof trousers and knee-high rubber boots, same as hers. Unlike her immaculate, just-purchased ensemble, his clothes were well-used and far from spotless. His black windbreaker was splotched with what might have been bird droppings, and his face was shadowed by a week’s worth of stubble.

  “Seen any sharks today?” the deckhand asked.

  The man grinned. “Day ain’t over yet.”

  She guessed, based on his dark good looks, that this was Jason Ruiz, the Filipino oceanographer she’d been communicating with via email. She’d seen a grainy photo of him once and it hadn’t done him justice.

  The deckhand lobbed her duffel in his direction. After catching it deftly, he motioned with his gloved fingers. “Toss her to me. I’m ready.”

  The deckhand’s eyes were merry, full of mischief. Daniela took a step back. “I’d rather not—”

  “We’re just messing with you,” Jason said, patting the aluminum seat beside him. “Give ‘er a jump.”

  She moistened her dry lips, measuring the distance between the boats with trepidation. The expanse across was less than two feet, but the drop went quite a ways down. And, although the whaler was tied off, it was still a moving target.

  Her stomach churned as she watched it pitch and sway. “Jump?”

  “Yep. And try not to hit water. Just because we haven’t seen them today doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

  The deckhand laughed, as if this were a joke. It wasn’t. This time of year, the sharks were most definitely there. They came to the Farallones every fall to dine on a rich assortment of seals and sea lions.

  Daniela stared at the surface of the water, feeling faint.

  She’d been debriefed about the boat situation, of course. But reading a matter-of-fact description about what she needed to do to access the island was different than actually going through with it. Leaping from a charter to an aluminum boat in shark-infested waters … it was madness. One false move, one tiny miscalculation, and …

  Gulp.

  Jason gave the deckhand a knowing smirk. “Just throw her over here, Jackie. She can’t weigh much more than that bag.”

 
“No,” she protested, scrambling up on the edge of the railing. She was pretty sure they were teasing again, but she also didn’t want to give herself time to reconsider. Chickening out before she’d begun was not an option.

  She took a deep breath, braced her hands behind her on the rail, and pushed off, flailing toward the whaler with arms and legs akimbo.

  She didn’t fall into the water. She didn’t hit the aluminum seat, either. She collided with Jason Ruiz, almost knocking them both off balance. He threw his arms around her and braced his legs wide, holding her steady until the boat stopped rocking.

  Daniela clung to him for a prolonged moment, her heart racing. She hadn’t been this close to a man in a long time, and it felt good. Strange, but good. He was quite a bit taller than she was, and a whole lot stronger. She could feel the muscles in his arms and the flatness of his chest against her breasts.

  He smelled good, too. Like salt and ocean and hard work. But even while she registered these sensations, there was one irrational, overriding thought: Not Sean.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, clearing her throat.

  “Don’t mention it,” he murmured, making sure she was ready to stand on her own before he released her. “I never get tired of beautiful women throwing themselves at me. I only wish I’d showered in recent memory.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “There’s a shortage of hot water on the island, and we’re all a bit rank.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You don’t smell bad.”

  “Really? I thought I smelled like bird crap and BO.”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “Bird crap, maybe.” The faint odor of ammonia filled her nostrils, but it was coming from the island not him.

  “I’m Jason.”

  “Daniela,” she said, grasping his hand. As quickly as it cropped up, the sexual tension between them dissolved.

  He was still smiling at her in an appreciative, masculine way, and she was smiling back at him, unable to deny his considerable appeal, but there was no intensity to their admiration for each other.