Dark Angel; The Chosen; Soulmate (14 page)

(Well, I'd say more mauve myself. Relax, kid. Fever's a natural side effect of a bad rash. Just like poison ivy.)

(But—)

(Look at Amanda.
She's
not too upset.)

(No, 'cause she probably knows Tanya was messing with her boyfriend. Or she has some other reason not to like her. But, I mean, I don't want Tanya
really
hurt.)

(Don't you? Be honest.)

(Well, I mean, not really,
really
hurt, you know? Medium hurt. That's all.)

(I don't think she's going to drop dead this minute.) Angel said it patiently.

(Okay. Good.) Gillian felt a little embarrassed for making a big deal—and at the same time she had a fleeting impulse to go check on Tanya herself. But the impulse was easily quashed. Tanya was getting what she deserved. It was only a rash. How bad could that be?

Besides, Angel was looking after things. And she trusted Angel.

She added the last dab of lipstick and smiled at herself in the mirror. Definitely she was one hot witch.

In sixth period, messengers brought candy canes that people had ordered last week from the Vocal Jazz Club. You could send the candy canes, which came with a ribbon and a note, to anyone you wanted.

Gillian got a pile so large that everyone laughed, and Seth Pyles ran over and snapped a picture of it for the yearbook. After school David came and rummaged through the pile, looking at the messages and shaking his fist, pretending to be jealous.

It was a very good day.

“Happy?” Angel asked that afternoon. David's mother had recruited him for heavy-duty Christmas housecleaning, so Gillian was alone in her bedroom—which meant it was just her and Angel. She was folding socks and humming her favorite carol, “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

“Can't you tell?”

“Not with all that noise you're making. Are you really happy?”

She looked up. “Of course I am. I mean, except for the stuff with my parents, I'm totally happy.”

“And being popular is all you expected it to be.”

“Well…” Gillian paused in bewilderment. “It's—it's a little
different
from what I expected. It's not the be-all and the end-all I'd have thought. But then
I'm
different from what I thought.”

“You're a witch. And you want more than just candy canes and parties.”

She looked at him curiously. “What are you trying to say? That I should do some more spells?”

“I'm saying that there's more to being a witch than doing spells. I can show you, if you trust me.”

“Yes,” Gillian said simply. Her heart rate had picked up a little, but with anticipation rather than fear. Angel was looking very mysterious.

He struck a looking-into-the-distance pose, then said, “Have you ever had the feeling that you don't really know reality?”

“Frequently,” Gillian said dryly. “Ever since I met you.”

He grinned. “I mean even before that. Someone wrote about the ‘inconsolable secret' that's in each of us. The desire for our own far-off country, for something we've never actually experienced. About how we all long ‘to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality… to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off….'”

Gillian sat bolt upright. “
Yes
. I never heard anybody say it that well before. About the chasm—you always feel that there's something else,
somewhere
, and that you're being left
out. I thought it was something the popular people would be in on—but it hasn't got anything to do with them at all.”

“As if the world has some secret, if you could only get on the inside.”

“Yes. Yes.” She looked at him in fascination. “This is about being a witch, isn't it? You're saying that I've always felt that way because it's
true
. Because for me there is a different reality….”

“Nah.” Angel grimaced. “Actually everybody feels exactly the same. Doesn't mean a thing.”

Gillian collapsed.
“What?”

“For them. For them, there is no secret place. As for you… well, it's not what you're thinking; it's not some higher reality of astral planes or anything. It's as real as those socks. As real as that girl, Melusine, in the store in Woodbridge. And it's where you were meant to be. A place where you'll be welcomed into the heart of things.”

Gillian's heart was racing wildly. “Where is it?”

“It's called the Night World.”

Gray-blue shadows were gliding up the hills. Gillian drove in the twilight, heading toward the darkness in the east.

“Explain again,” she said, and she said it out loud, even though she couldn't see Angel. There was a slight disturbance of air above the seat to her right, a hint of mist, but that was all. “You're saying it's not just witches.”

“Not by a long shot. Witches are just one race; there are all sorts of other creatures of the night. All the sorts that you've been taught to think are legends.”

“And they're
real
. And they're just living alongside normal humans. And they always have been.”

“Yes. But it's easy, you see. They look like humans, at least at first glance. As much as
you
look like a human.”

“But I
am
a human. I mean, mostly, right? My great-grandma was a witch, but she married a human and so did my grandma and my mom. So I'm all… diluted.”

“It doesn't matter to them. You can claim witch blood. And your powers are beyond dispute. Trust me, they'll welcome you.”

“Besides, I've got
you
,” Gillian said cheerfully. “I mean, ordinary humans don't have their own invisible guardians, do they?”

“Well.” Angel seemed to coalesce dimly beside her. From what she could see of his face, he was frowning. “You can't actually tell them about me. Don't ask why; I'm not allowed to explain. But I'll be with you, the way I always am. I'll help you out with what to say. Don't worry; you'll do fine.”

Gillian wasn't worried. She felt steeped in mystery and a sort of forbidden excitement. The whole world seemed magical and unfamiliar.

Even the snow looked different, blue and almost phosphorescent. As Gillian drove through rolling farmlands, a glow
appeared above the eastern hills, and then the full moon rose, huge and throbbing with light.

Deeper and deeper, she thought. She seemed to have left everything ordinary behind and to be sliding more and more quickly into an enchanted place where anything—anything at all—could happen.

She wouldn't have been surprised if Angel had directed her to pull off into some snowy clearing and look for a fairy ring. But when he said, “Turn here,” it was at a main road that led to the straggling outskirts of a town.

“Where are we?”

“Sterback. Little hole-in-the-wall place—except for where we're going. Stop here.”

“Here” was a nondescript building, which looked as if it had originally been Victorian. It wasn't in very good repair.

Gillian got out and looked at the moon shining on the windows. The building might have been a lodge. It was set apart from the rest of the dark and silent town. A wind had started up and she shivered.

(Uh, it doesn't look like anybody's in there.)

(Go to the door.) Angel's voice in her mind was comforting, as always.

There was no sign at the door, nothing to indicate that this was a public building. But the stained glass window above the door was faintly illuminated from the inside. The pattern seemed to be a flower. A black iris.

(The Black Iris is the name of this place. It's a club—)

Angel was interrupted by a sudden explosion. That was Gillian's impression. For the first instant she had no idea what it was—just a dark shape flying at her and a violent noise—and she almost fell off the porch. Then she realized that the noise was barking. A chained dog was yammering and foaming, trying to get at her.

(I'll take care of it.) Angel sounded grim, and an instant later Gillian felt something like a wave in the air. The dog dropped flat as if it had been shot. It rolled its eyes.

The porch was dead silent again. Everything was silent. Gillian stood and breathed, feeling adrenaline run through her. But before she could say anything, the door opened behind her.

A face looked out of the dimness inside the house. Gillian couldn't make out the features, but she could see the gleam of eyes.

“Who're you?” The voice was slow and flat, not friendly. “What do you want?”

Gillian followed Angel's whispered words. “I'm Gillian of the Harman clan, and I want
in
. It's
cold
out here.”

“A Harman?”

“I'm a Hearth-Woman, a daughter of Hellewise, and if you don't let me in, you stupid werewolf, I'm going to do to you what I did to your cousin there.” She stuck out a gloved finger toward the cringing dog. (Werewolf? Angel, there are real werewolves?)

(I told you. All the legendary creatures.)

Gillian felt an odd sinking. She had no idea why, and she continued to do just as Angel said. But somehow her stomach was knotting tighter and tighter.

The door opened slowly. Gillian stepped into a dim hall and the door slammed shut again with a curiously final sound.

“Didn't recognize you,” the figure beside her said. “Thought you might be vermin.”

“I forgive you,” Gillian said, and pulled off her gloves at Angel's direction. “Downstairs?”

He nodded and she followed him to a door that led to a stairway. As soon as the door opened, Gillian heard music.

She descended, feeling extremely… subterranean. The basement was deeper than most basements. And bigger. It was like a whole new world down there.

It wasn't much brighter than upstairs, and there were no windows. It seemed like an
old
place; there was a shuffleboard pattern on the cold tile floor and a faint smell of mildew and moisture. But it was alive with people. There were figures sitting on chairs clumped around the borders of the room and more gathered around a pool table at one end. There were figures in front of a couple of ancient-looking pinball machines and figures clustered at what looked like a home bar.

Gillian headed for the bar. She could feel eyes on her every step of the way.

She felt too small and too young as she perched precariously
on one of the bar stools. She rested her elbows on the counter and tried to slow her heart down.

The figure behind the bar turned toward her. It was a guy, maybe in his twenties. He stepped forward and Gillian saw his face.

Shock rippled through her. There was something…
wrong
with him. Not that he was hideously ugly or that he would have caused a commotion if he got on a bus. Maybe it was something Gillian sensed through her new powers and not through her eyes at all. But the impression she got was that his face looked
wrong
. Tainted by cold dark thoughts that made Tanya's scheming mind look like a sunlit garden.

Gillian couldn't help her recoil. And the bar guy saw it.

“You're new,” he said. The dark and cold seemed to grow in him and she realized he was enjoying her fear. “Where are you from?”

Angel was shouting instructions at her. “I'm a Harman,” Gillian said as steadily as she could. “And—you're right. I'm new.”

(Good, kid. Don't let him bully you! Now you're going to explain to them just exactly who you are—)

(In a minute, Angel. Just let me get—settled.) The truth was that Gillian was completely unsettled. The sense of dread that had been growing ever since she walked in was reaching an unbearable pitch. This place was… she groped for adjectives. Unwholesome. Corrupt. Scary.

And then she realized something else. Up until now she hadn't been able to make out the faces of the other figures properly. Only eyes and the occasional flash of teeth.

But now—they were moving in around her. It reminded her of sharks, swimming almost aimlessly but ending up in a purposeful gathering. There were people directly behind her—she could feel that with the back of her neck—and there were people on either side of her. When she looked, she could see their faces.

Cold—dark—wrong. Not just wrong, but almost diabolic. These were people who might do anything and enjoy it. Their eyes glittered at her. More than glittered. Some of the eyes were
shining
… like an animal's at night… and now they were smiling and she could see
teeth
. Long delicate canine teeth that came to a point.
Fangs
…

All the legendary creatures
…

Sheer panic surged through her. And at the same instant, she felt strong hands on her elbows.

“Why don't you come outside with me?” a voice behind her said.

Then things were confused. Angel was yelling again, but Gillian couldn't really hear him over the pounding of her own heart. The hands were exerting pressure, forcing her away from the bar. And the figures with their diabolical faces were settling back, most of them wearing conspiratorial grins.

“Have fun,” somebody called.

Gillian was being hurried up the stairs, whisked through the dim building. A blast of cold air hit her as the door opened and she suddenly felt clearer. She tried to break out of the iron grip that was holding her. It didn't do any good.

She was out in the snow, leaving the house behind. The street was completely deserted.

“Is that your car?”

The hands on her arms eased their pressure. Gillian gave one desperate wrench and turned around.

Moonlight was shining on the snow around her, giving it the texture of white satin. Every shadow was like an indigo stain on the sparkling coverlet.

The person who'd been holding her was a boy a few years older than Gillian. He was lanky and elegant, with ash-blond hair and slightly tilted eyes. Something about the way he held himself made her think of lazy predatory animals.