Darkstone

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  He grinned at her, a severe expression that revealed glistening teeth of pearl. Though depicting amusement, it was the smile of a predator looking upon its prey. His silver eyebrows quirked in question, crowning golden deep-set eyes. “Not what you expected, huh?” Naomi’s lack of response made him laugh, the sound filling the room with ethereal music. Despite her visceral terror, she found the sound of his laughter haunting. “You should see yourself, kid! Shut your mouth before the flies get in.”

  For the second time, Naomi snapped her mouth shut. A blush crawled up her face, the sensation prickling beneath her icy skin.

  “I wondered if you’d make it tonight. The weather being what it is, I had my doubts.” He gestured to the second chair and sat back down. Busying himself with pouring another glass of whiskey, he continued, “Inanna told me last summer you’d be here today. She’s got a lot of faith in you.”

  His exotic eyes pierced her, and she froze an instant before recognizing a very human delight in his expression. Emboldened by his mention of her mother and his apparent humor with the situation, she eased around the chair and perched on its edge.

  Still smiling, he capped the bottle and leaned back in his recliner, using the lever to extend his legs. “The sandwiches are for you, Naomi. I’d bet you haven’t had anything to eat since this morning. Do you want something besides milk?”

  She relaxed more at the use of her name and shook her head. Her first attempt to speak faltered. She cleared her throat. “Thank you. Milk is fine.”

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugged, puffing on the thick cigar between his fingers as he settled back to enjoy his whiskey. “You might consider removing the cloak, though. You’ll warm up faster. Take the plate to the hearth if you want. I don’t stand on ceremony much here.”

  His extraterrestrial appearance, the American accent and his American Western affectation and clothing threw off Naomi’s sense of propriety. This morning, she’d had visions of Tibetan-style monks, much bowing and hard physical tribulations in her immediate future. Now she sat on a recliner with a whiskey imbibing… Her mind shied away from the word even though she’d noted his pointed ears. As she took up her host’s suggestion, easing out of her heavy cloak, she wondered what the next year would hold. Certainly not what she’d initially thought. She doffed her scarf and mittens. Carefully reaching for a sandwich, she felt a different sort of weariness steal over her, this one a more natural debilitation after a strenuous day without much food or drink. The first taste of turkey on her tongue inspired her stomach to complain at length of her neglect. A ravening hunger overtook her current concerns, and she ate with fresh alacrity.

  The plate was half empty when she finally slowed, the milk nothing but a white film on the glass. She’d relaxed more as warmth returned to her fingers and toes, having sunk back into the recliner without thought. She curled up in the chair, her boots on the floor and her cloak pulled over her lap to protect her feet. Though drowsy, she didn’t feel nearly as depleted as she’d been upon arrival. She turned her attention to her host. He watched with a contented smile, his cigar no longer producing smoke. The butt of it lounged in an ashtray on the table. His whiskey bottle was almost empty, but he didn’t give any indication of being inebriated. Not that Naomi would know much about how alcohol affected a man. But he’s not a man, is he? “Who are you?”

  “Ah, much better. Glad you could make it to the shindig.” His grin widened, revealing those wicked teeth. “Don’t you mean what am I?”

  Naomi blushed but didn’t look away. “Yes.”

  “Silly girl,” he said, his tone teasing. “Didn’t Inanna read you stories as a child? What do you think I am?”

  She lifted her chin at his challenge. “I may be silly, but I know that elves don’t exist.”

  He laughed again, the sound of it enamoring her. “Maybe not in the plural sense, no. But I assure you, I do exist.”

  Emboldened by his lack of umbrage and the swell of beguilement at his laughter, she took a risk. “Do you help cobblers with shoes?”

  “Oh! That was a low blow, darlin’.” He affected injury, clutching his abdomen as if wounded. “Take the shots you can now because tomorrow you will be my student and I your instructor. I won’t tolerate rebelliousness.”

  For the first time since catching sight of him, she scanned the large antechamber. Two doors led off behind the fireplace, presumably toward classrooms and living quarters. “Is there anyone else here?”

  “Nope. Just you and me, little filly.” He knocked back his whiskey and reached for the bottle to drain the last of it.

  Naomi felt a sense of supreme desolation and loss at the knowledge that this…elf…lived up here alone. “Why?”

  He raised a silver eyebrow at her. “The door to my realm has been closed for thousands of your years. There are gossamer thin gaps in the ether that support this reality, this world. This place is one of them. I live here because I cannot live anywhere else. I must remain connected to the place of my origin in some small way or I shall die.”

  She frowned, examining him. The sharp planes of his face had shifted as he spoke, but she didn’t recognize the expressions. Was he happy or sad? His words indicated a fatalism she’d never experienced, but his tone was dry, almost arid in their delivery. Regardless of his physical presentation—the Mexican-heeled cowboy boots and the Western-style shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons—he was truly alien to her and this world.

  Questions plagued her mind. How had he gotten here? Why did he stay? Why couldn’t he open the door to his realm and return? It had been closed for “thousands of your years.” How old was he? How and when had he met her mother, Inanna? What subjects would he cover? One inquiry came to the fore. “What’s your name?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows, the unexpected expression highlighting his exotic appearance even more. “You can call me Nathan, darlin’.”

  “Nathan?” The moniker was as preposterous as his presentation. Naomi couldn’t hold back her scoff. “You can’t tell me that your name is an ancient and time-honored elven one.”

  Nathan chuckled. “If you really want to know, I was born—” and he spoke a word of many syllables in a language Naomi had never heard before. It flowed like water from his lips, tumbling over smooth rocks to melodiously cascade across her ears. “Humans have difficulty with that, however, so I adopted Nathan. It seemed appropriate enough.” He gave the sandwiches a significant look, apparently realizing she’d eaten her fill. Using the lever on the chair, he hoisted himself up to his booted feet. “Shall I give you the two-bit tour? Tomorrow’s a new day, and you’ll need your rest.”

  She hastily stood, a wave of light-headedness causing her to waver a moment. When it passed, she collected her belongings and shoved her feet into her boots. “What will you be teaching me?”

  He led her to one of the doorways. “I’ll be instructing you in a number of physical and mental subjects. By next year you’ll be able to defend yourself against psychic attack as well as physically kill your opponent.”

  Naomi froze, staring at the back of his ponytailed head as he continued walking away in silence. He’s kidding…right?

  Chapter Seven

  Joram stood a healthy distance away from the elevator that had brought her to this hellhole a year ago, surrounded by as many children as could fit into the small room. Despite the number in attendance, a semicircle before the elevator door stood bare in anticipation. The circular staircase held close to another fifteen people, and she doubted there was less than a handful left peering down from the doorway above. A ripple of awe and pride coursed through her at the sight. It had been a rough beginning, but the end was nearly here—for everyone.

  The camera in the upper corner here had been smashed weeks ago, ensuring that Anders and his goons wouldn’t have the slightest clue of what would soon meet them. Over Joram’s tenure as one of “Them,” she’d located and destroyed as many cameras and microphone pickups as she could lay her hands on. There wasn’t a wall le
ft standing in this vast maze of rooms that hadn’t been ripped into as they tracked the snarl of electrical cables and plumbing pipes that made up the modern construction.

  “Are you bloody certain this will work?”

  She shook her head at the boy standing beside her. He barely reached her chin and his hard-boiled behavior never registered the fact that she towered over him. “No. But it beats sitting around doing nothing, doesn’t it?” Internally, she sighed at his dissatisfied expression. “Look, there’s no way Anders will hurt me. I’m positive of that.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “You’re putting all our lives on the line. It better not be a cock up,” he said in a crisp British accent.

  Beside him, a black-skinned boy held his hands up, palms out. “Nuh vex yuh, mon.” His Jamaican patois was thick, more an affectation here in the hole than in reality. He hooked a thumb at Joram. “She da Second Comin’. Obeah Man won’ do nuthin’.”

  Joram grinned at Jubal though the term he used for Anders caused her gut to twist. “Obeah Man” meant witch doctor here on the islands. While intellectually she scorned the idea that Anders practiced witchcraft, that deeper nugget of her soul believed the possibility existed. How can this place be so far underground when we’re on an island with the beach so close?

  Shoving the inner disquiet away, she forced herself to focus on the present. She’d hatched this plan months ago, banking on Anders’s pride and proprietary feelings toward her. If anyone could get these kids out of here, it was her. She was positive Anders wouldn’t hurt her, not if he wanted her to become the great Chosen One he’d always nattered about. “Look,” she said, returning to the conversation, “we’ve torn down the cameras, dug through the walls and found the microphones. They have no idea what we’re doing down here. We’ll have the drop on them. There are only two guards in that elevator—everybody says so. We have the strength of numbers and an excellent shield. Me.” A girl shifted beside her, the movement reminding Joram how much her girlfriend didn’t care for that part of the plan. She pulled the girl into a light embrace without dropping her gaze from the pessimistic boy before her.

  True to form, the British boy said, “We think we’ve got all the microphones and cameras. There’s no guarantee we did. He might know what we’re up to.”

  Jubal rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

  Not for the first time Joram considered the correlation between geography and the gathered teenagers’ innate understanding of Anders’s strengths and weaknesses, of her own place in the scheme of things. Jubal’s home was here in Jamaica at the same complex where Joram lived. He believed down to his bones and blood that Anders was a witch doctor and Joram was his heir-in-training. As a result, he rarely argued Joram’s suggestions or decisions. The British boy seldom agreed to anything. Was it because Anders’s substantial physical presence was necessary to sway his people? If that was the case, how did he keep them all in line? There were so many… Once Joram had negotiated truces between the multiple warring factions of kids, the knowledge of how far and wide Anders’s influence stretched boggled her mind. With varying results, it was a wonder she’d been able to rally them together for this last-ditch prison break.

  She scanned those around her, catching a few apprehensive stares. The tightly packed bodies gave her a sense of claustrophobia, but she couldn’t show fear, couldn’t show weakness of any kind. Since she’d killed Christina, she’d cloaked herself in disdain, utilizing the lessons she’d learned with Anders to get her way. These days it was second nature as she gave the British boy an arrogant sneer, touching the hilt of the steak knife tucked into her belt. “You know where the door is.”

  His sallow skin paled though he lifted his chin in defiance. He’d had his own lessons in brutal leadership during his time here.

  The overhead lights pulsed, and everyone froze in place.

  “Joram Darkstone.”

  Joram’s girlfriend clutched at her hand, and Joram smiled reassuringly in response. That was the second announcement today, which meant the clock was ticking. She turned away from the boy’s doubt and her girlfriend’s terror, stepping forward. Around her, the kids readied themselves, steadying makeshift weapons as they jockeyed for position.

  An incongruous ding announced the return of the civilized world as the elevator arrived on their floor. The doors opened to reveal Anders and two soldiers. Everyone stared at each other for long moments, the goons’ weapons aimed at the crowd. Red lasers trailed along the children, leaving gasps and shuffling people in their wake. The tension in the room held a skittish note, and Joram searched for a way to gather the intensity before it dissipated into panic.

  “Going-away party?”

  Joram loathed the internal joy she felt at hearing Anders’s hated voice. Despite her current circumstances and his responsibility for them, he was still the man who had saved her all those years ago. Her stomach rolled at the sudden epiphany that faced her—she had missed him. From the corner of her eye she saw the British boy melt into the crowd behind her. Coward. She took another step forward, keeping Anders’s attention on her. “Yep, we’re all leaving.”

  Amusement wrinkled Anders’s face. He laughed aloud, clapping in delight. “Really! And how do you propose to do that?”

  A rush of dubiousness washed over her, but she refused to back down. “You and your friends are going to step out here with me, and my people are going to run the elevator in shifts upstairs until everyone’s out.”

  He tsked under his breath, doing exactly as she’d suggested, stepping out of the elevator. The teenagers cringed back in the already overcrowded room.

  He really is like oil in water. One drop and everyone rushes away from the scummy surface. Used to his type of confrontations, Joram stood her ground. With dismay, she realized she was almost as tall as him. When had that happened?

  “You’ve told me what you’ll do but not how you’ll get it done, miting.”

  His pet word for her brought distant pride and revulsion to the fore. This was taking too long; the kids were becoming more agitated. She sneered, masking her growing trepidation. “You won’t hurt me. I’m the hostage and the terms are that everyone down here goes free.”

  Anders cocked his head, a bushy eyebrow arched. “Or you’ll shoot the hostage?”

  Joram swallowed, stomach queasy. Drawing the knife caused the soldiers to step forcefully into the room, safeties clicking off and red lasers wavering on her shirt. She ignored them and the startled cries from some of the spectators. “I was actually thinking about stabbing the hostage. It’s something I have more experience with.” She brought the blade to her throat, the rusty edge biting into the soft skin along the pulsing artery there.

  He studied her, the amused expression never leaving his face nor reaching his dark eyes. “I believe you.” He turned around, walking toward the elevator.

  A wave of relief made Joram tremble. It’s working!

  “Shoot her.”

  Before she could react, one of the goons fired. Pain erupted in her left shoulder, and she spun, the knife dropping from her numbed fingers. Pandemonium broke out as the teenagers shouted and screamed, rushing for the exit. Joram stared down at her chest, seeing a blue-feathered dart sticking in her shirt. She tried to reach up and remove it, but her arms were too heavy. The room lights flickered, becoming dimmer as the sounds of panic drifted far away.

  She never knew when she hit the ground.

  * * *

  Joram sat up in bed, scowling as she flogged her sluggish mind into action. She had to have been sleeping heavily to be so torpid, an inadequacy that could get her killed. Her hands searched for the knife at her waist, finding nothing but sheets.

  Sheets?

  Shocked fully awake by the incongruity, she realized she sat in an actual bed with clean-smelling linens, not a filthy mattress on a floor. The aroma of salt air and the sound of surf entered through an open window, and real honest-to-god sun filtered into the room. Relief kicked her heartbeat into
action at the visual evidence that she’d been released from that hellhole, her joy quickly fading into shame. She’d failed them. Jubal and the others hadn’t escaped. Those that had survived the chaos would wait out their months, more forlorn than when they’d started because of her lapse. No one had considered a prison break, not seriously, not until Joram. She’d given them hope, a goal to strive for and had failed to follow through. It hadn’t occurred to her that Anders’s soldiers would be armed with anything but live ammo, and she knew Anders wouldn’t kill her. She castigated herself for not realizing her error. Anders was an evil man with grand designs, but murdering the children of his people would destroy his primary power base. Of course he wouldn’t actually hurt them. Why should he? We go down there and hurt ourselves.

  Disgusted with her arrogant stupidity, she jumped from the soft bed, feeling undeserving of such luxury. She was naked, her thoughts shying away from the idea that Anders had been the one to undress her unconscious form. It had probably been Madeleine. Her fingers caressed the skin of her chest where the tranquilizer dart had hit her, finding nothing but a tiny scab, a healing badge of disgrace. It would disappear in a day or so, unlike the ignominy she’d carry in her heart. Sweat and fear and dirt still clung to her skin, the sourness exuding from her pores and psyche. Her bladder twinged, and she searched the room for an en suite.

  This wasn’t the bedroom she’d left a year ago, but she recognized her belongings—her books on a shelf, a neat desk with a photo of she and Madeleine, the lighter she’d acquired as a child sitting on her nightstand. She scooped it up without thought, the cool metal against her palm a reassuring sensation. Her music stand was in one corner with the violin laid across the stool as if she’d set it down moments ago. Her first instrument, the piccolo that Anders had given her, gleamed on a shelf. After so long without music, her fingers twitched with the urge to play something. Anything. Instead she continued her scan. There were three doors here, one with a robe hanging from a hook. She’d always had a robe on her bathroom door. Curious, she started there.