Darkness Fair (The Dark Cycle Book 2) (14 page)

TWENTY-THREE

Aidan

The house is dark and quiet now that night has settled in. Connor’s still in the room with Rebecca. Jax is downstairs in the office watching YouTube with Holly and arguing about some new promotional ideas for LA Paranormal. I showered and changed my bandages—still no healing happening as far as I can tell. I wonder if I should get someone to stitch me up, but I can’t think of who. I could call Sid’s doctor, but then Sid would know, and he has enough to worry about. Plus, it’s not like I want to announce my new weakness. So, I just wrap myself back up and plead with my power to fix the mess.

Kara is sleeping in her bed a few feet away from me. I’m sitting in her chair getting ready to open Eric’s journal for the bazillionth time, to look for that “under-passage.”

Eric said that I should be able to find it now. I guess because I’ve—what?—linked to my dead father’s bones?

The thought sends a shiver through me.

Just as I’m running my hand over the leather binding, getting ready to open it again, someone knocks on the door.

“Hey, it’s Connor.”

“Yeah,” I say, quietly, not wanting to wake Kara. “You can come in.”

Connor opens the door and I lean forward.

“What’s up?” I ask. “Is Rebecca okay?”

“She’s awake. She’s fine.”

Some of the tension leaves my muscles.

“I should probably talk to her,” I say, more to myself. She needs to know what’s happening. The secrets aren’t helping at all. But how do I tell her something like
this
? I barely understand it all myself. And I really don’t want it to be true, that my soul would’ve rather chosen Rebecca instead of Kara.

“What’d Sid have to say?” Connor asks.

I blow out a puff of air. “Oh, you know, the usual. A bunch of stuff I wish I’d known two months ago.”

“About your power? Did all this with Rebecca happen today because of it?”

“Yes. And no. It happened because of both of us, I guess.”

“You mean, Rebecca has powers like yours?”

“No. Not like mine.” I pause. “It’s just that she’s the one who was supposed to awaken my powers, not Kara. They think Rebecca’s my real soul mate, the one chosen for me by fate or some shit. And that could have something to do with Kara being sick.” My throat closes, not wanting to follow that thread any further with Connor. The guilt is a hundred boulders on my back.

“But Sid did the spell. And you feel everything with her, so . . . strong—”

I shake my head. “No. The fact that I care about her now is just human stuff.”

“Wow, that’s . . .”

“Yup.”

A troubled look paints a shadow over his features and he turns to look at Kara’s sleeping form. “So, you’re supposed to be with Rebecca now? Not Kara.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

He nods slowly, looking a little relieved, but still doubtful. “So what happens to Rebecca? Could all this hurt her in some way?”

“I don’t know. There are still a lot of questions.” Loads more questions than answers.

“Kara must be wrecked.” His brotherly worry shows in his eyes.

“She’s suspected for a few days, but she was too scared to tell me.”

“Yeah, that sounds like her,” he says, like he’s seeing it all clearly. He’s known Kara a lot longer than I have and probably understands her far better.

As Connor starts to leave, I say, “Hey, I might be going by the club tomorrow to check on a few things. Make sure Rebecca and Kara are okay, will you?”

He hesitates. “What’s going on at the club?”

“Nothing.”

By the look on his face, it’s obvious he doesn’t believe me, but he agrees before heading out of the room. “Sure. No problem.” And then he closes the door, leaving me with thoughts about the mess of fate.

I sit for several minutes, staring at Kara, before I open the journal to the first page.

Eric’s familiar words cover the surface in his tidy handwriting. I flip through the book, not really seeing any of it; it’s all the same information I’ve been looking at for a month. First it explains my Awakening, how the change worked, how my powers rose. It explains demon lore, outlining their limits and my strengths. It says a hundred things that I already know about my mission to kill them. But right now, it’s all completely useless. I grip the edges of the journal in my hands, trying to decide whether to rip it in half or throw it out the window.

“Just show me, dammit!”

Something pricks my thumbs, as if the pages are suddenly filled with tiny needles. And I can’t let go. I can only watch as a wash of red seeps across the parchment in thread-like waves. I stare in shock, no longer feeling the sting on my thumbs as my blood actually becomes a part of the paper’s weave. And then my blood is the ink, curling itself into crimson text, right in the center of the page, in a language I’ve never seen. But I understand the terrifying words perfectly.

You will touch death with fire and bring it into life once more. What you awaken shall usher in the world’s end. The Cycle of Darkness has begun
.

I stare at the blood script and try to make sense of it. Dread fills me. I awakened someone already, according to Eric. I awakened Daniel, my father. And Eric called him the first Harbinger.

Shit.
I need to check the ossuary. Now. I need to see for myself whether Eric was right. I close the journal and grab my jacket, then head downstairs.

I’m rushing through the kitchen when a soft voice whispers from behind me.

“Hey.” Something tugs my shirt.

I jerk back, then see it’s just Rebecca. “You trying to give me a heart attack?” The house is totally silent. It’s past midnight and everyone’s asleep now. Everyone except the two of us, I guess.

“Where you going?” she asks.

“Out. But you should be resting.”

“I feel fine.” She tilts her head, like she’s thinking. “Actually, I’m super antsy. I need to get out of here.”

“It’s late.”

“
You’re
going somewhere. So I can, too.”

“You aren’t going anywhere right now,” I say, trying to be intimidating. “You need to rest and this isn’t resting.”

But I’m obviously not intimidating enough, because she shoots back, “You’re not the boss of me, Aidan.”

I sigh. “Are we six now?”

“I’ll wake up Holly and Jax and Kara—” She points at my face when I raise my brow. “Yes, I said Kara. She won’t like you going anywhere at this time of night.”

“She’s not a part of this.”

Rebecca looks dubious. “I thought she was a part of everything.”

As I stare at her, my bastard of a mind replays Kara’s words:
Rebecca was meant to be the one
. . . She’s wearing tight blue jeans, tall brown boots with heels, and a very tight pink T-shirt that hugs her waist and breasts. She’s sexy as hell. And I’m definitely not going anywhere with her alone.

“Are you seriously going to push this?” I ask through my teeth.

She nods. “Absolutely.”

“Fine. Wait here.” I point at her like it’ll stick her to the spot, then I go upstairs to wake Connor.

Connor glares at me in the rearview mirror from the backseat of the Camaro, arms folded over his chest, hood up. Rebecca is sitting shotgun, her fingers tapping on her denim-clad knees, looking content.

“You should’ve just tied her up,” Connor grumbles. “A little duct tape. All fixed. I’d have untied her in the morning.”

Rebecca watches the city go by as we make our way down Wilshire. “I don’t see why Blondie-Boy had to come at all. It’s not like I’ve never gone to a club.”

Does she want me to remind her of the last time she was at this club? Not that I would. And it’s not like that horror was her fault, anyway.

I’m also not going to mention the fact that I brought Connor along because I didn’t want to be alone with her. So, instead, I throw out, “Connor can just hang around and make sure you’re okay while I get the supplies from Hanna.”

She turns and makes a show of looking Connor over. “He’s kind of big to be a babysitter.”

“I’m in no mood, woman,” he grunts.

Rebecca giggles and turns back around, apparently having a grand time. She has no idea how torn up I am inside, sitting next to her, thinking about how the two of us being together like this would hurt Kara. “Just please stay out of trouble.” I say it a little too forcefully, and she cocks an eyebrow at me. “And don’t drink anything.”

“Holly was right,” she says. “You
are
a buzzkill.”

We get to the club and I attempt to convince Rebecca to stay in the car; Connor’s almost asleep again and he seems reluctant to get out. But she won’t have any of it. She leaps out, sauntering toward the alley, heading for the entrance before I can stop her. She’s half dancing, half walking to the loud music that spills from the walls of the club.

Connor drags himself out of the Camaro and groans, “I’ve got her.” He follows, hunched over, looking miserable.

After I see he’s caught up, I turn and head across the parking lot to the warehouse. I don’t call Hanna, deciding I’d rather do this alone. I move through the main building and type in the code for the inner vault per her instructions. The thick door thuds and hisses open.

Once inside, I close it and punch in the code to lock things back up. The thud sounds again and the lights flicker on, one by one, going down the rows of shelving. The place is still in a state of confusion, unpacked boxes and randomly stacked books and papers everywhere. As I walk down the aisle, I try to hold on to the hope that Eric’s wrong about whose bones might be inside that ossuary, and what might have happened when I touched it.

But a chill works over me as I get closer to the box. Chunks of tan limestone are scattered across the shiny white floor, and smaller bits begin crunching under my feet as I approach. Not good. I scan the shelf, hoping maybe one of the other boxes just got knocked over, but don’t see the ossuary I touched yesterday.

Probably because I’m stepping on what’s left of it.

I lean down and pick up a large piece of the limestone, running my thumb over the smooth surface.

An image flashes behind my eyes as I fall into the vision. I’m outside the dead man’s body this time, an observer, taking on the vantage point of the stone box instead. I see a scattering of bones where they fell. The pieces vibrate on the linoleum, flesh regrowing like a time-lapse video. Blood appears in red beads that roll together, joining along the bones to become the vessels. Bronze skin stretches over calf and thigh, over fingers, neck, and face, hair sprouting in dark curls.

The body rises to its feet, naked, shimmering flakes of light and heat circling the male form. He takes a moment to steady himself, looking around. Then he moves. Walks down the aisle a few steps before disappearing into a burst of white light.

The stone I was holding drops from my hand, thudding back onto the floor as I return to the present. If that
was
the prophet Daniel, he’s now very much alive.

TWENTY-FOUR

Rebecca

As soon as I get in the club—thanks to Connor, who seems to know everybody working here—I make a beeline for the dance floor to wash away all the crazy going on inside me with loud music. I let the vibrations fill my skin like a living thing, soaking it all in: the smells and colors and pulsing air. It’s real and urgent. I love to dance. It takes my mind off the madness of my life. I don’t have to think about what’s happened, or why. I don’t have to think about what I saw or felt.

Thinking about it only makes me more confused. No matter what Connor says about Aidan being a magical demon-killer who’ll save the world, I still have no clue what his power has to do with me, or why it would affect me like that. Is something
wrong
with me? Am I evil? Is that why his fire seemed to want me? Is that why I dreamed those weird things afterward? The things I felt in the dream, with all those tastes and smells surrounding me as I touched him and kissed him . . . they seemed so real. It felt like he was the other half of my heart.

But that can
not
be in my head right now. It wasn’t real. It was all just some freaky vision. And I have no right to feel anything even remotely steamy toward the guy. He’s practically married to Kara.

When I couldn’t fall asleep, I tried to draw, hoping to find answers, but nothing came to me. My mind was blank, except for a buzzing; a sort of white noise left over from Aidan’s fire touching my skin. It was time to get out of that house.

And now, in this loud world, I can forget. I can forget that my brother died, that my heart is broken, that I’m alone.

I’m not alone in this moment. I’m surrounded by beauty, by close bodies and smiles, and that fake life, full of plastic people, where no one feels anything real.

I get lost in the rhythm of wild beats, the rustle of excited breath. The crowd moves like a living thing, each of us a piece of something larger, a joint celebration of life. Hands graze my arms, my waist. I dance until sweat collects on my brow, wets my hair, and runs down my temple, down my lower back, dampening my shirt. Until I feel like I’ve connected with everyone on the dance floor, one partner after another, getting to know each one without words, just movement.

I feel Connor’s eyes watching me from the edge of the floor. And sure enough, when I glance over to where I left him, I spot him through the crowd. The lights pulse behind him, turning his hair dark, making it so I can’t see his face. But he’s definitely staring at me. Like,
really
staring.

I frown as the world tips a little, a wave of dizziness washing over me. I blink and just shake it off, then go back to dancing. But even after another song, he’s there, in the same place. Except, wait . . . he’s sliding into the crowd.

I decide to follow, to get him to dance with me—if he’s going to be babysitting anyway, he may as well join the fun. I make my way to the spot where he stood, then look over the cocktail area. I thought that I was right behind him, but I don’t see him anymore.

I wander over to the bar and an older guy instantly accosts me, asking if I want a drink. He leans over all skeezy and bearded, telling me I’m too beautiful to be thirsty. I say thanks, but no thanks, even though I’d love a stiff drink right now. A little Jack and Coke would wipe my busy mind for a good few hours. But the last time I hid my confusion and pain in a bottle, I found myself woken up by a gorgeous guy, who would eventually ditch me.

I find Connor on a couch in a dark corner, his hoodie up, head bowed, arms folded over his chest. I walk up and stand over him, waiting. When he doesn’t move I kick his flip-flop with my boot.

“Hey, sleepy. Don’t you wanna dance with me?”

He grunts and his head falls back. “Hush, child.”

I plop next to him and tap his shoulder, like an annoying little sister. “Pretty please, Connor.”

He grunts again and puts an arm over his eyes.

“Oh, stop being a drama queen,” I say with a laugh, bumping his side. “I know you’re faking it. You were spying on me a second ago.”

His arm falls and he sits up straighter, leaning in like he didn’t hear me. “What?”

“You’re a big faker. I saw you watching me.”

His face scrunches in confusion and he shakes his head.

I point to the spot on the edge of the dance floor where he’d been standing. “Right there.” But now I’m suddenly doubting that it was Connor. I hesitate and look back at his face and realize he’s serious. He wasn’t watching me.

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I start to feel queasy. “
Someone
was gawking.”

“Well, you’re pretty,” he says, like it’s obvious.

I blink at him. Is he just being nice to me again? I find myself not able to look in his eyes. They’re not flirty like I’m used to from guys. They’re honest, and I don’t know what to do with that right now. “Oh . . . kay.”

He leans in closer. “Come on. You’re fully aware of how gorgeous you are.”

I’m half-flattered, half-offended. But my stress pushes me over the edge of offense. “Seriously? I’m
that
girl to you?”

“You telling me you’re not aware?”

I have no words. Because, yes, I know how guys look at me. But it’s not my freaking fault. “There’s nothing wrong with knowing I’m seen in a certain way. I am
not
stuck up.”

“Of course not.” But he smirks and his arms fold back over his chest.

Smug jerk. I growl and find my feet, heading for the bathroom.

My fit of frustration is put on pause, though, when I find myself in a very long line. Kind of takes the wind out of my sails. And it makes me feel ridiculous, because I don’t actually have to pee. I stay in line for a second, though, because I don’t want to give in right away.

Which is totally sad.

I deflate and wander back over to the bar, leaning on the end near a swinging door that says
Employees Only
. Standing here keeps me on the edge of the crowd, and I’m out of sight of the old guys hungry for a take-home gal.

I can’t see Connor from here, but I can picture him, sitting all hooded-up and stuffy in his high tower of perfection. Grumpy old man. He’s got no right to judge me, anyway, with that tan skin of his, all warm against his light hair. And those muscles. And those glorious eyelashes! He’s freaking perfect himself, self-righteous little—

Rebecca
.

I freeze. Was that someone saying my name? It whispered over the pulse and noise of the bar, a soft hum in my ears.

It comes again:
Rebecca
.

I look around, but everyone seems caught up in their own drama, chatting with possible dates or ordering drinks.

Rebecca
. This time it sounds like it’s coming from behind me. I turn to the swinging employee door and push it open a crack to peek. It leads to an empty, dimly lit hall. There’s someone down there in the shadows.

Rebecca
. . .

I jerk away, letting the door swing shut, and bite back a squeal. The figure definitely just said my name.

Don’t be afraid
.

I shouldn’t be able to hear him over all the crazy noise in the club. And something about him feels familiar. A distant piece of me recognizes him.

I push open the swinging door again and step into the hall. My legs shake as I look at the man in the shadows ten feet away.

“Thank you for hearing me,” he says. I search my memory for a face to match the voice, feeling like it’s just out of reach.

“Do I know you?” I ask, stepping closer. He moves out of the shadow and my breath catches in my throat. “Aidan!” It’s Aidan. But no, that can’t be him. This guy’s, like, thirty. “Who are you?” I ask, voice weak. He looks exactly like Aidan—the same high cheekbones, dark lashes, the same full lips. And the heavy curls combined with those hazel eyes, like shimmery green glass.

“My name isn’t important,” he says. “I’ve come to bring a message and you’ll be the one to help me.”

“Me?” What does he mean? I should be terrified right now, talking to a strange man in a dark hallway, but I’m not. In fact, I’m totally relaxed, as if I’m looking at an old friend. I can’t seem to muster up any real concern or fear like a sensible person.

“Yes, you and others. But for now, I’ll speak only to the keeper of his heart.”

I blink at him. “Whose heart?”

“The Fire Bringer. He will need to be ready, but I cannot prepare him myself.”

His words shouldn’t make any sense, but somehow I recognize who he’s talking about. “Uh, you mean, Aidan? You may have the wrong girl. I’m not anywhere near his heart at the moment.”

The man’s lips curl up in a sad sort of grin and he tilts his head. “But you wear his soul mark over your own heart.” He motions to his ribcage and I wonder if he means my butterfly tattoo—but how in the name of heaven would he be able to see that? “You are meant to be his,” he adds when I still look at him doubtfully.

What makes this guy think he knows
anything
about my heart or Aidan’s? “Maybe you should be looking for Aidan. He’s around here somewhere.” I point behind me.

“I know where he is,” he says, moving closer. “I wish to give him time to settle into his place before I speak to him. For now, you will be my connection.”

This is just so weird. “Who are you?” I ask again, this time trying to put more force behind my words.

“I am no one of significance.”

“Well, I won’t pass on any messages to him if I don’t know who’s sending them.”

“You will tell him that he cannot stop what’s to come,” he says, ignoring my stubbornness. “He should be ready. He must hold tight to the hem of Grace and the tattered remnants of Forgiveness.”

I feel myself giving in, listening intently, but I protest like I’m not. “I’m not going to tell him anything. I don’t know you. You might want to hurt him—he has lots of things trying to hurt him, you know.” As I say this, I’m pointing at the man and moving closer, like by getting in his face, he’ll buy my objections more.

He steps forward in a rush of movement, his body coming within inches of mine, faster than I could’ve blinked. My heart stops in my chest, then skips sideways.

“You are brave,” he whispers, raising his hand to touch his fingers to my forehead, as if he’s placing something on my brow. “But you must realize, this clay vessel is set to crumble; your fragile flesh will be tested in ways you cannot imagine.” He closes his eyes and cocks his head as if listening hard to some voice I can’t hear. “You are the mother of many but your womb is empty.” He says these words with surprise in his voice. “You will lose your anointing, your heart, your soul. You will pass on this blessing and bear no life within you, though you were meant to give birth to a whole world.”

He opens his eyes again, searching my face, looking pained. “You are correct; you do not belong to him as you should. That was stolen from you, and the path has changed once more. I am so sorry, child.” Tears glisten in his eyes and my throat goes tight, feeling as if he’s broken my heart, and yet I’m not sure why. “Tell him what I’ve spoken of,” he says quietly. “And then make your journey. Though it wasn’t the one set in blood among the stars, and this shift may cause pain for so many, it will be well with you, and you will find your way to Peace.”

His hand falls back to his side and he steps away from me, his features lined with misery. It hits me like it’s my own hurt, like I have some reason to be as tormented as he looks.

Then he bows his head and disappears.

Poof!

Gone. Right. Before. My eyes.

One moment he’s there and the next he’s just . . . not. And the air seems to sizzle with heat where he stood.

I reach up to feel my brow where he touched me, and my fingers come away slick, like he had oil on his hand. I look at my fingertips, slide them together as the scent of night jasmine fills my head.

An image of my mother comes to my mind, a memory of a photograph my father kept beside his bed for many years before it was placed in a drawer and forgotten, just like her. Charlie always said she smelled like jasmine and summer. The loss of her, of any memory of her, becomes a deep sorrow. How could I not have ever known her? How could she have chosen to leave? And Charlie . . . My chest aches with it, my eyes sting.

And then the weight of it all hits me, my body shaking under the heavy reality of what my heart suddenly takes on. The truth. I’ve lost so much. I’ve lost my hope. I’ve lost Aidan. I’m alone. And it’s useless to pretend otherwise.