The Dark World

by Cara Lynn Shultz

  The same eyes that sparkled at me playfully in class, teasing me about my pens. The same eyes that were serious when we sparred on the roof, narrowing with focus as he taught me how to swing a sword. That peeked at me over an adoring grin, before sharing a sweet kiss.

  I don’t know who you are.

  I backed away from him as more images assaulted my mind. Logan defending me. Standing up for me. Saving my life.

  Lying to me, telling me he was a half-warlock. Instead, he was a demon—part of the race of creatures that wanted to kidnap me and hurt me.

  “This is what you wanted to tell me. This is why you gave me an out.” My voice sounded foreign and hollow, and I felt disconnected from my body, like I was watching someone else react.

  Logan took another step toward me, and I stepped back again, not trusting myself to touch him. Not trusting him to touch me.

  My gaze met his briefly, the regret and sadness that had always been brimming in his eyes suddenly making sense.

  I wondered what he was seeing on my face, since every nerve, every emotion was at once numb and overloaded. I got my answer when he finally spoke.

  “You want to go,” Logan said softly, his eyes never leaving my face. “You should go, Paige.”

  It was all I needed to hear. So I ran—leaving Dottie and Travis and Logan standing there on the stage as I rushed up the aisle, grabbing my coat and bag and pushing the doors open. I kept running, my mind flooded with memories of the past six weeks with Logan. The letter he’d written me. How he’d offered me an out—an out I probably should have taken. But then I wouldn’t have the memories I do have, like us curling up on the picnic table on the roof every Friday and Saturday night after my parents went to bed. Cushioning ourselves against the unforgiving, splintered wood by wrapping ourselves in a soft, thick blanket that I’d smuggled from the linen closet, and sharing soft, unhurried kisses in between talking about everything and nothing...

  But we never talked about the one thing we should have talked about—his past, and who he really was. I never asked him, hoping he’d open up in his own time since he’d begged me to be patient with him. Would he have answered me if I’d asked about his parents?

  Oh, your uncle once got arrested? Talk about embarrassing relatives—I’m related to a bunch of demons. Sorry if I didn’t bring that up earlier.

  I braced my hands on either side of my front door, panting. I had no recollection of my run home, vaguely recalling horns bleating at me on Amsterdam Avenue. I’d probably run right through an intersection and didn’t even notice it. I could hear the TV through the door, the rapid-fire flipping of channels indicating that my father was home. I tried to steady my breathing—I just wanted to curl up in my bedroom and think. Or not think. Or swipe the bottle of Irish cream my dad thought I didn’t know was hidden with his cookbooks, and drink it until I couldn’t spell my own name.

  I slid on my coat—I’d somehow run here with it in my hand—hoping it would hide my disheveled appearance. The last thing I wanted was my father to notice that anything was wrong. I’d just found out that I didn’t really know the one person who knew me best. I couldn’t face an interrogation about it.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said, giving my father a tight-lipped smile and wave as I walked into the apartment, trying to stealthily head straight into my bedroom.

  He didn’t fall for it.

  “Paige, what the hell happened to you?” Dad asked, and I paused, looking down at my hands and feeling my heart drop when I realized they were, of course, still stained with Logan’s blood.

  “My pen exploded?” I said, holding up my hands.

  “Not the ink!” Dad replied, muting the TV and sitting up straighter as he scrutinized me. “What’s in your hair?”

  I gingerly patted my stained fingers on the crown of my head, feeling gravel-like bits of concrete coating it like a veil.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Construction site near the school?” I lied weakly. Why not keep lying, Paige? Everyone’s doing it.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Dad asked, scrutinizing my face. “You’re home really early. Where’s your shadow?”

  I frowned at my father’s nickname for Logan, and Dad’s blue eyes narrowed as he studied me.

  “What’s wrong? Is it Logan? Did that boy hurt you?”

  “Dad, no,” I insisted as my father folded his arms, clearly not believing me.

  “Paige, you look like you’re in a daze.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, smiling brightly to make up for the trembling in my voice. “Just tired.”

  My father paled as he studied me, getting up from the couch to stand before me.

  “You didn’t have one of your...episodes again, did you?” he asked gently, his eyes searching my face. “You’ve been doing so well, but maybe having a boyfriend is too much stress on you.”

  I winced at his mention of a boyfriend—and Dad noticed.

  “Maybe you need to go back to therapy—”

  “Dad, no. It’s nothing like what you think. Please, just let me wash this b-b-bright ink off me,” I stammered desperately, wringing my hands together as I stood on display in the center of the living room. I can’t believe I almost said blood.

  Finally I just strode into the bathroom, desperate to get my hands clean as I used a nail brush to scrub the blood off my hands, trying to hold back the tears as the violet-tinged water swirled down the drain. There was a lot of it. And suddenly I was terrified for Logan. I stifled a gasp as his agonized face flashed behind my eyelids. Is he okay? How bad is that wound?

  “Something is wrong, I know my daughter,” my dad insisted, standing in the entrance to the bathroom. “Did Logan do something to you?”

  “No, Dad.”

  “Are you sure? I never liked the looks of that boy,” my father said, folding his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. His comment sparked a flare of protectiveness in me. Dad already tormented Logan every chance he got. Don’t make it worse on him the next time they’re in the same room. If there is a next time.

  I barked out a short laugh at the irony of it all. The only reason I knew Logan was a liar was because he’d gotten injured protecting me.

  “What’s so funny, Paige?” my father asked suspiciously. “What did he do to you?”

  “The idea that Logan would lay a finger on me is what’s funny. It’s nothing he’s done,” I said, gripping the edge of the sink with soapy fingers. No matter what, I couldn’t let my dad have a bad image of him. Logan didn’t deserve that. I didn’t know what he deserved right now, but he didn’t deserve my father’s scorn. I could at least do that for him.

  “Are you sure? Did he say something ungentlemanly—” he growled as he pronounced the word “—about you? I know how locker room talk goes.”

  “Dad, Logan hit a guy who said something ungentlemanly about me in the locker room. Logan’s the last person to say or do anything like that to me.”

  My dad’s eyes opened in surprise.

  “And you’re mad at him about it?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Well, I don’t know if I agree with using violence to solve anything, but in this case—” my dad bit the inside of his cheek as he tried to hide a smile “—Logan’s gone up a few points in my estimation.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said, brushing past my dad to go back into the living room. He followed me.

  “Paige, what happened? You come in here upset, you don’t even notice that you’ve got gunk in your hair. I thought teenage girls lived and died by the condition of their hair.”

  I whirled around to face my dad, a smart remark ready to burst through my lips. But when I saw the earnest, concerned expression on his face, I felt my shoulders sag.

  It was hard enough trying to sort through my feelings about what I’d just discovered about Logan. Par
t of me felt betrayed. Another part of me felt like he had to have a reason for keeping it from me. And then there was the rational part of me, which told me to move to Canada and change my name, because Logan was a demon and all demons were evil.

  All those warring parts of me agreed on one thing: this was the deepest hurt I’d ever felt, and I couldn’t handle trying to defend Logan to my father anymore.

  “Can’t I just have a bad day and not get the inquisition over it?” I pleaded.

  “Okay, kiddo,” Dad said, coming over to give me a hug. “Go wash this crap off, and just remember, I’m here to talk,” he said, awkwardly patting my debris-dusted hair. “Or if it’s really, um, womanly stuff, you can talk to your mom when she gets home,” he reminded me.

  And she sure tried to get me to talk, especially after my father had gone to work. So much for holing up in my room all night. My mom dragged me into the living room, wanting to know why Logan hadn’t joined us for dinner—as he had every Friday since I first squeezed his hand.

  For one night, couldn’t my parents forget that they cared about me and leave me alone?

  “Mom, it’s just a—”

  “Bad day. I know that’s what you told your dad. But I know the difference between a bad day, and a bad day over a boy,” Mom replied, staring at me wisely as we sat on the couch, the laugh track of an old sitcom sounding in the background.

  “So, what did Logan do?” she asked, holding her white mug, absently running her fingers over the raised red logo for some bank. “And don’t even try to tell me it has nothing to do with him.”

  “Fine, it does,” I finally admitted, taking a sip of my tea. It was loaded with sugar and milk, just the way I liked it. But it was doing nothing to calm my nerves.

  “What did he do? I’ve heard it all before. You should hear the things the younger girls at work talk about.” My mom raised her eyebrows and let out a whistle.

  “Logan’s different from those guys.” If only she knew how different.

  “Sweetie, it doesn’t matter how old they are. There are some universal truths when it comes to men,” Mom said wisely.

  “He, uh...he didn’t tell me something he should have,” I said, deciding that was true enough.

  “About what?”

  “Um...you know. Stuff.” I shrugged. Way to be literate, Paige.

  My mom pursed her lips, pulling them to one side of her face as she studied me.

  “Does it have something to do with things he’s done in the past, maybe? Perhaps other girls?” she asked, arching a sculpted eyebrow, and I groaned.

  Oh, great. Now Mom thinks this is about sex, and I don’t even know if we’re physically compatible. Aiden had wings. Who knew what other differences existed between us?

  I shuddered at the thought of the surprises that could be hiding down below, and my mom nodded sagely, thinking I’d just confirmed her suspicions.

  “It’s not what you think,” I mumbled, holding up my mug and trying to hide behind it, feeling my face flush.

  “Have you talked to him about why you’re upset?” she asked, and I shook my head.

  “No. I just—” left him standing there, injured and bleeding, as I ran away “—needed time alone.”

  “Well, maybe you should call him tomorrow,” my mom continued.

  “You know, Dad would probably like nothing more if I never spoke to him again. Why are you taking Logan’s side?” I asked, studying my mom curiously.

  “I’m taking your side, Paige,” my mom corrected me, reaching for one of the butter cookies that sat on a plate on the coffee table. Instead of biting it, she simply studied it, running her finger along the sugar crystals baked into the top.

  “I know you’ve had a hard time of it ever since the accident,” Mom said, her dark eyebrows pulling together. “The past three years haven’t been easy. We did what we thought we should do to support you, but nothing seemed to help you get over what happened. You’re always so careful of what you say around us. So guarded.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek as my mom spoke. And here I thought my parents believed my little normal act.

  “We try not to force you into things, to let you talk to us in your own time, and you’re still so cautious. But you’re not like that around Logan. He’s given you back something—this little light. I don’t know if it’s that you feel like you can be yourself around him or what, but I’d hate to see you lose that. So that’s why I say I’m on your side, because I do think he’s been good for you. But if you feel like your trust was permanently broken, well, that’s another story. Just think things over before you make any final decisions.”

  My mom punctuated her statement by biting into the cookie and brushing the crumbs off her fingertips.

  * * *

  I thought about what my mom said as I stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, lying in my bed fully dressed in jeans and a top. Guilt washed over me as I thought about how I fled from Logan—as he was injured, pleading with me to listen. Well, I may have run away then, but I wouldn’t walk away from us now. Not without giving him a chance to explain.

  Of course, tonight was the night my mom decided to stay up late watching a movie, so it was nearly one before I could sneak out of the apartment. I didn’t know if Logan would be on the roof as usual, but I hoped he was. I wanted to know that he was okay. I had to hear his side—and he deserved to tell it. And as angry and hurt as I was by his lying, I finally admitted to myself the real reason I was going to meet him. The words had burst into my head before, but I knew it was true: I loved him. I couldn’t help it. I loved Logan, and I had to find out if he was really the person I fell in love with, or just a carefully crafted facade.

  Chapter 13

  AS I CLIMBED the stairs, my brain spiraled with fake but elaborately detailed conversations. Maybe Logan would turn into a demon, spewing hateful, hurtful words at me about how it was all an act to win my trust. Or maybe Logan would explain that he’d killed so many Regents, he’d taken on their blood as well as their powers—but he was still definitely a human.

  I was really rooting for that scenario to be real.

  And then I remembered something Logan had said, right after he was injured. He’d held me close, begging me to let him have this moment.

  At the time, those words had been like an icy injection in my chest. My heart had dropped, and I’d started to panic, thinking that he’d been mortally wounded, holding me for one final embrace.

  Instead, now I knew what he really wanted was one final moment with me—with us—before I left him. The out he’d offered me in that letter hadn’t been for my benefit. It had been for his, to protect his heart when I turned him away. Logan had known I’d run from him the moment I discovered what he was. And that’s exactly what I’d done.

  So I wasn’t really surprised when I pushed open the rooftop door and found that I was alone. It was just me. Me and the memories of where we’d practiced fighting with swords. Me and the ghosts of the kisses we’d shared, cuddled up on the picnic table.

  I wrapped my arms around my waist as I walked as near as I dared to the low wall that edged the rooftop, watching how midtown’s lights illuminated the low, heavy clouds, making them seem almost bright against the dark sky. The night was crisp but not cold, not that chilly temperatures bothered me these days. It had been a frosty night two weeks ago, and Logan had used the weather as an excuse to wrap his arms around me from behind. We’d stood there, not kissing, not talking...just being. I slumped against the picnic table, rubbing my face with my hands.

  It couldn’t have been an act. If he wanted to hurt me, he’d had countless opportunities. It was real. It had to have been real.

  “You’re here.”

  His voice startled me, and I stood up straight, my head whipping to the side to see Logan standing in the doorwa
y. Taking measured, slow steps, Logan began walking across the rooftop, keeping his eyes on me. He was dressed comfortably, in a dark gray T-shirt, black hoodie and dark jeans. He looked cozy—like he was well suited for travel. Especially with the big duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  My mouth went dry, and my heart lurched at the sight. I’d expected us to fight. I’d thought we would argue. But I never imagined he’d just leave.

  “This is goodbye,” I said, my voice a harsh whisper.

  “You’re telling me to leave?” Logan asked. I blinked in surprise at the expression on his face. He actually looked hurt.

  “Aren’t you already?” I flicked a finger toward his bag. He dropped it off his shoulder, taking swift but cautious steps, closing the gap between us quickly.

  “Paige, I’ve got a sleeping bag in there. I was planning on staying up here all weekend in case you came up to speak to me.”

  I slumped against the table again, this time in relief. He wasn’t leaving. My bruised heart was momentarily soothed by the idea—and it kind of pissed me off.

  “That’s not fair!” I cried, frustrated, and he took a step back, standing about four feet in front of me.

  “Not fair?” Logan repeated, looking confused.

  “No, it’s not fair that you can make these big, wonderful, romantic gestures straight out of a movie—but can’t tell me the truth. You’ve been lying to me since the moment I met you.”

  “Technically, I wasn’t really lying,” Logan said defensively. “If anything, it was a lie of omission.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s right in the title, Logan. It’s a lie of omission,” I said, crossing my arms. “It’s not called a truth of omission. If it wasn’t a lie they would have called it something else, like...the poodle of omission.”

  A brilliant—but brief—smile flashed across Logan’s face.

  “Only you can make me laugh when you’re in the middle of telling me how much you hate me,” he said ruefully as he raked his hands through his hair, his ever-present baseball cap missing.