Darkstone

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Terror seized her. If he discovered who she was, who had raised her, he’d kill her now. Experience and training counted for nothing against this man, this abomination. She had nothing in her spiritual or physical armament to defeat him. For a brief instance she yearned to tell him everything. Fighting the desire, knowing it to be external pressure rather than her own wish, she swallowed her words unspoken and looked away. “No, sir. Never.”

  He drew two fingers along her chin, forcing her head up as he scanned her face. Apparently confident in his ability to control others and not finding what he sought in her eyes, he nodded and released her. “You’ve met me now, haven’t you? I’m not an enemy you want to have. Remember that.”

  Naomi nodded vigorously, not putting on an act as she exhibited overpowering relief at escaping his will. “I won’t forget.”

  Satisfied he’d made his point, he turned and stalked to the door. It opened on its own once more at his approach. Rebecca’s eyes were the only thing that moved as she tracked his progress past her still-frozen stance. He paused at the apartment entry, affixing a stern gaze upon Naomi. “Remember. Leave her and live.” He took the final step backward and the door closed on him.

  Both Rebecca and Naomi stared at it for several moments, paralyzed by a sense of unreality. Rebecca broke the tableau, jumping to the door with a curse to throw the deadbolt. She stepped away, staring at the knob as if it threatened to come alive and bite her. “Who the fuck was that?” she demanded in a muffled whisper.

  Naomi pushed past her to look out the peephole. No one was there. Cautiously, she reached for the lock.

  “What are you doing?” Rebecca demanded, grabbing her hand.

  “I have to see if he’s gone.” Naomi shook Rebecca off. She gave her friend a significant glare, pleased to see Rebecca shudder but step away. Returning to the task at hand, Naomi unlocked the door and stepped outside.

  The day was as warm and sunny as ever, a typical California day unmarred by their evil visitor. Naomi went to the balcony banister, leaning over to peer at the stairs and into the parking lot. There were no unfamiliar cars and no one else in sight. She released her pent-up breath, letting the smog-filled air rinse the man’s taint from her lungs and throat.

  Rebecca hovered on the threshold, taking tentative peeks outside. “Is he gone?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” Naomi reentered their apartment, closing and locking the door behind her.

  “Do you know who he was?”

  Naomi nodded. “I think so.” Still on edge, she went to the nearest window to peer out at the lot. “I think he’s the man who raised Joram.”

  Rebecca’s voice sounded strangled. “Him? He’s her father?”

  Absently, Naomi stared outside. “No, she’s adopted. She calls him her patron.”

  After a pause, Rebecca snorted. “That’s bad enough, but at least they’re not really related.”

  Naomi smiled, agreeing with Rebecca’s sentiment. Turning back to her, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you believe me now?”

  “What?” Confusion colored Rebecca’s face.

  “Do you believe me?” She pointed at the front door. “That was the man who raised Joram, the one my mother trained to close the door thousands of years ago.”

  Rebecca looked away, arms folding across her chest. “You don’t know that.”

  It was Naomi’s turn to scoff as she placed her hands on her hips. “Are you kidding me? You were here, you felt it. You felt him.” Rebecca didn’t respond, and Naomi closed the distance between them. “You didn’t unlock the door. He didn’t use his hands to open or close it when he left. You looked absolutely horrified just being in the same room with him. He’s not just a bad man. There’s something more about him, something wrong beyond insanity.”

  Unable to argue Naomi’s points, Rebecca’s shoulders sagged and she stared at the floor. “All right, I believe you. Whoever the hell he is, he’s not…normal.” She shuddered.

  Naomi wondered how she could be both pleased at Rebecca’s concession and nauseated by the now incontrovertible proof that Joram Darkstone was indeed her target. At least she could have argued Inanna’s belief since there’d been no evidence beyond her mother’s “feeling.” Debilitating fatigue overcame Naomi and a wave of dizziness left her reeling. Confusion dulled her thoughts. “It’s true. It’s all true.” She’d known this for half her life, why was it impacting her this way now?

  Warm hands helped her into a chair and rubbed her back. “Bend over, put your head between your knees.”

  Doing as ordered, Naomi felt her weakness pass after several minutes. She sat up, feeling foolish as blood heated her face. “Thanks.”

  Rebecca squatted beside her. “De nada. You’d do the same for me.” She brushed a curly lock of hair from her face. “I had a tough enough time just being in the room. At least he didn’t touch me.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Naomi nodded. “Yeah. I’m better.”

  “I’m thinking I need something a little stronger than tea.” Naomi placed her hands on her thighs and rose. She gave Naomi’s shoulder a pat before heading into the kitchen. “What about you?” she called back.

  The temptation to bolster her nerves with alcohol was stronger than her desire to keep a level head. “That sounds like a magnificent idea.” She stood, holding the back of the chair until a brief instance of vertigo faded, then trailed after Rebecca.

  “Whiskey?”

  “I’ll get the glasses.”

  They returned to the living room, each with a glass of scotch on the rocks. After a long sip, Rebecca sighed, slouching onto the couch. “What were you saying before the boogeyman showed up?”

  “Boogeyman?” Naomi snorted an inappropriate guffaw, almost inhaling her drink. It seemed almost sacrilegious to call that monster something as innocuous as boogeyman.

  Rebecca cocked her head. “Can you think of a better word?”

  Pestiferous? Mephistopheles? The Morning Star? Naomi rejected them all. Whoever Inanna’s original Chosen was now, he’d begun life as human as Naomi herself. “Not really.” She wondered if Inanna would have need of a future Chosen and how that person would view Naomi’s accomplishments. Or lack thereof.

  “You were saying something about choice.”

  The interrupted sense of epiphany swept over Naomi again as she remembered her train of thought, though the sensation wasn’t as strong as the first time it had occurred. Has it only been a half hour ago? She nodded, acknowledging Rebecca’s reminder had hit home. “I’ve been told I’m Inanna’s Chosen One, that I chose to be with her. By definition, that means I’m her…acolyte, I guess?”

  “The Church of Inanna?”

  A vision of the monastery doors appeared in Naomi’s mind, the eight-pointed star that was a symbol of the ancient goddess Inanna embossed on them. “Something like that.”

  Rebecca nodded. “So what’s the excitement? What connection did you make?”

  Naomi blinked. “The job requires free will.”

  “Like the Christian church? You have to make the choice to bring God into your life?”

  “Exactly.” Naomi peered into her glass, listening to the ice crack. “I haven’t chosen this role for myself. I can choose not to do the task I’ve been given.”

  A smile broke across Rebecca’s face as she sat up from her sprawl. “I like it!” The humor faded. “But how do you feel about it? I know you don’t want to hurt anyone, least of all Joram, but you’ve spent years believing it was a foregone conclusion.”

  Naomi frowned, unable to verbally define the morass of emotion welling in her heart—sorrow for the disappointment she would cause her mother should she decide not to follow through, fear that such a choice would result in the destruction of the world as she’d been told, terror that the man who’d just left her apartment would have the unlimited magical power he sought when it happened. Most of all, she weighed her resolve against the iron smell of blood
, the hot splash of it across her hands and the expression of surprise and betrayal in Joram’s sea-green eyes as she died.

  “Naomi?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel.” She sat in silence, mulling through the emotional repercussions of her choice. Whichever option she picked opened her to a world of pain. Was it better when she’d assumed her destiny was fated? Eventually Rebecca’s lack of response pulled at her, and she turned to see her roommate studying her with concern.

  When she had Naomi’s full attention, Rebecca said, “There is something else to consider.”

  Naomi opened her mouth to speak, but croaked. She cleared her throat. “What’s that?”

  “That your mother is wrong.” At Naomi’s expression, she raised her hand to forestall an argument. “Hear me out. Do you think Joram is conscious of what she’s doing?”

  Affronted, Naomi said, “No, of course not. She’s not like that.”

  “Right. And what do you think she’d do if she knew?”

  “She’d…” Naomi stopped, mouth open as her mind made lightning-fast connections. “She wouldn’t do it.” Sitting up, hope coursing through her, she laughed. “She wouldn’t do it! She’s his Chosen One—she can Choose too!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Joram slid a bill across the table. “Keep the change.”

  The waitress, one of Joram’s many past conquests, eyed her with concern. “Are you all right? You’ve been hitting it pretty hard for hours.”

  Forcing a smile, Joram gave her a flirtatious wink. “I’m fine. Just need some time to think things through.” She took possession of the fresh beer bottle, sliding the battle-scarred veteran she’d been clutching to join its half dozen comrades. The only reason she hadn’t been cut off was the leisurely pace in which she’d been imbibing. “Things are hectic. You know. Big tings a gwaan.”

  Not entirely convinced, the waitress nevertheless nodded, gracing Joram with a smile. “I’m off work in a couple of hours. Let me know if you need anything else or want some company later.”

  “I will. I promise.” Joram watched the waitress depart, her smile fading as she returned her focus to the fresh bottle in her hands. She picked at the label, pulling off shreds of paper, adding them to the pile already strewn across the tabletop. The dented lighter she’d carried since childhood gleamed next to her silent cell phone on the table’s surface.

  Canned music played from overhead speakers. She’d come to the Indigo, needing a comfortable and familiar place to think. From a booth in the back she had a view of the stage that she’d so recently abandoned for more popular venues. Had it only been a few weeks ago? Someone else’s set of drums crouched there now, another set of cables and mic stands littered the riser. Regardless, the Indigo was where she’d found a home of sorts, a peaceful place where she’d spent the last six years of her professional life. The club was one of the rare instances where she’d bucked Anders’s precise direction and succeeded. She sat with her back to the door to avoid immediate recognition by regular customers. It was still early enough that few patrons had stumbled in to begin their night of partying. Chances were good that she wouldn’t be noticed by anyone who knew her for a good while yet.

  Leaving off the bottle label, she checked the hour on her phone. It was long past time for her to be at the casino for rehearsal. She’d never missed one before, not in all the years Invocation had been together nor in her youth spending hours in her studio. A mixture of guilt and disgruntled satisfaction stirred her heart. She tried to discern if this surge of stubborn rebellion was aimed at her bandmates for last night’s disavowal of the ballad or Anders himself.

  She’d been up all night but didn’t feel particularly tired. She hadn’t returned home since last night’s gig, having spent the night driving aimlessly with Anders at the wheel. He’d told her an outlandish tale of fairies and trolls and magic, a story about his youth and inexperience, of his fatal mistake to seal a breach that had closed off an entire dimension from this one, an entire world forever denied access. Had it been anyone other than Anders telling the story, Joram would have dismissed it as the blathering of a mental patient, but this was Anders. Obeah Man.

  After he’d left her, walking out into the California desert in the middle of nowhere, she’d driven to the Indigo and waited outside until the doors had opened for business. During those first hours, she’d come to terms with Anders’s transcendental nature. She’d spent many years in his presence, years of ignoring the multitude of hints and portents that he was much more than just a man. She’d always avoided references to his magic in the past, laughing off Jubal’s comments as superstition, refusing to admit to the uneasy notion that perhaps the whispers and rumors were true.

  Her denials had never quieted her subconscious fears. Anders had always known what was happening with her and where she was, almost seeming to read her mind. He’d always had a test or snarky remark when she thought she’d successfully slipped from his attention, interceding with wicked wit as he steered her along the path he’d set for her. He had a following of thousands of people worldwide, but no hint of him or his people could be found on the Internet. He’d built an island compound near the ocean that housed an impossibly deep, underground torture chamber for children. Something sinister flickered behind his eyes when she studied them, something dark and chaotic. People flinched from his touch, his regard, their primitive brains recognizing the spiritual marauder even if their conscious thoughts refused to believe. Even now she still felt the greasiness of his hand on her skin, her soul. Oil on water. She remembered the first time he’d touched her, the film of slime on her cheek as Madeleine cuddled her in the streetlight.

  She took a swallow of beer, setting the bottle aside in favor of the lighter. Her memory of that first night had always been muted, unreal. Was that from a psychological need to distance herself from the trauma of an abusive childhood, or something Anders had done to her mind? Did he have that kind of power? He’d always had a way with words, but now she wondered if it was more than just talk. She studied the metal surface of the lighter, wiping her thumb across a worn scratch. The dim overhead light reflected and flashed in her eyes.

  There’d been two men. She remembered that. Two predators trying to lure her out of some hole in the ground. The lighter had cast terrifying shadows across one of their faces as he’d leered at her. She’d suffered enough nightmares during her childhood to have that fact firmly entrenched in her memory. She doubted the man had sported the sharp teeth or slavering jaws her childhood self had added. If she concentrated, she could see him and his friend without the chilling embellishments. Then they were gone. Something sudden and violent had occurred, but she didn’t recall seeing anything. Scary noises and they were gone, and Anders had arrived with food, smooth words and the piccolo that still remained in her possession. The Pied Piper of Hamlin.

  She flipped the lighter open and ignited it, staring at the flame. Anders had been watching her even then, following her as she rooted in Dumpsters for discarded food and frequented back alley clubs to hear music. As a child, the malaise of his attention had been sublimated by the concept that she was the special person for whom he’d been searching. Now she wondered about a man of such power stalking an abandoned four-year-old living in squalor. How long had he followed her and watched her suffer before contacting her? His timely intervention hadn’t been unplanned. He’d either been concerned that her two attackers would succeed in capturing her or he’d set them on her himself, allowing him an opportunity to “save” her and gain her trust. How long would he have left her on the streets if her two attackers hadn’t found her?

  She didn’t regret her choice that night. He’d told her she was special and she’d believed him. Since then she’d never caught him in a lie; if anything he was brutally honest when pressed. Something about her had called to him or he wouldn’t have been interested. Besides, had he not interceded, had she refused his offer, she’d eventually have ended up in foster care, doomed
to a life of mediocrity, addiction and abuse. Her choice had afforded her some familial affection from Madeleine and physical if not emotional security. She’d had clothes, plenty of food and a roof over her head. Even now she lived off his largess with a condominium and a car, neither of which she’d have if she’d given him that damned piccolo back.

  Last night he’d told her that music was the manner in which her magic manifested. He’d raised her to be healthy, if not happy, and had provided a wealth of musical instruction to hone her talent. The one thing he’d regretted was interrupting her education on her thirteenth birthday for her sojourn into Hell—not because he thought she should have been spared the experience, but because it had disrupted her magical education.

  Hell—that first powerful shame of failure that had burned away her childhood fears. She’d learned many lessons during that year; how to take a beating, how to kill, how to negotiate with diverse individuals to attempt a common goal, how to become a better human being than she’d been in her spoiled yet emotionally neglected youth. She’d also discovered that while sweetness drew support from many, it was fear of the knife that finalized the deal. Coming out of Hell, she thought she’d put away the knife. At least she hadn’t needed the physical threat of violence to get her way anymore. Who needed it when she had the specter of Anders looming behind her? He’d always been there, an easy out, her protector and the menace keeping her associates in line. Why hadn’t she seen that before now? All this time she thought she’d broken away from that habit only to realize how much influence he still held with the people in her life.

  She snapped the lighter closed, extinguishing the flame. Anger burned at the back of her throat, an ever-present sensation when she thought of him. She’d thrown away most of her fear in favor of anger when she’d failed to save her friends from Hell and then imbued her songs with the emotion. Her fury called to others, like-minded individuals who had suffered similar feelings of powerlessness. She’d funneled her rage into her music with Anders’s blessing and gathered an audience of rebellious fans, just as she’d gathered the children in Hell to rebel against the man who’d put them there.