The Better Part of Darkness (7 page)

My heart continued pounding, and I still felt his hands and mouth everywhere. I shook my head, trying to clear the sex-induced fog from my brain.

When I didn’t answer, he stepped back more, looking confused, as though I should have fallen down at his feet and confessed my undying adulation. “No. I don’t want you like this,” he said, “not like this.”

Understanding dawned just before the humiliation took over. Bitter cold swept through me, extinguishing any stubborn flames. “Like what, Will? I’m standing here with my pants down around my ankles and you’re just going to walk away because I’m not going to say I love you?” Still trembling, I jerked my pants over my hips, feeling the pressure of tears rise to my eyes. “Go to hell.”

I hated that his scent evoked so much history between us. We’d spent our young adulthood together, built a life together. Two nineteen-year-olds facing the world. As a team. It hurt just to look at him. In the last six months, he’d succeeded brilliantly in his career, but was it on his own merits? He claimed to have quit practicing after that night. Friends, family, everyone believed him. And I guess I did, too, or else I’d never allow Emma to spend time with him. I also knew that he never meant for things to get so out of hand, but there was a mountain of emotional obstacles for us to overcome. He wanted too much, too fast.

I had to learn to trust him again. And right now, that seemed impossible.

With a determined gaze, he moved toward me, not stopping until his mouth was on mine. I sucked in a small, surprised gasp, pulling his warm breath inside me without meaning to. He kissed me hard and meaningfully. No tongue, but with so much emotion that tears welled in my eyes. I knew he loved me, and his sorrow and regret tore me in half.

The squeal of bus brakes broke us apart.

Grateful for the reprieve, I sidestepped my ex-husband, straightened my shirt, and redid my hair as Will went to the sink and splashed water onto his face. He was just as shaken as I was.

The entire visit had rattled me to the bone. Emma and I had been doing just fine on our own. We’d settled into a comfortable routine in the last few months, had pushed past the initial hurt of divorce and were moving forward.
Damn him!

He dried off and then finished the bottle of water as Emma came through the door.

“Daddy!”

Like magic, the dark aura of emotion surrounding him lifted and a wide, genuine grin split his handsome face. For a moment, it was as if they were the only two people in the world.

“Hey, you. How’s my girl?” He set her on the counter.

“Fine.” Her brown eyes grew larger and more serious. “Amanda is in the hospital.” Her confident gaze flicked to me. “But Mom’s going to help her.”

Tall order, Charlie.
I plastered a mom-smile on my face, ignoring the concern that her trust and matter-of-factness stirred in my gut. She believed in me. And there was nothing worse than letting your kid down. Nothing. “Why don’t you go wash your hands and put your things in your room?”

She hopped off the counter, the soles of her Mary Janes thudding on the tile floor. “Am I going with Dad tonight?”

Will glanced from Em to me, and I could see he was up for it. I shook my head. “No, Aunt Bryn wants to have a sleepover.”

“Why don’t I take her now,” Will said, “and then I’ll drive her over to Bryn’s after dinner.”

I hesitated, suddenly not wanting to be left alone after the day I’d had. But Emma loved her father so much. I couldn’t say no. “All right, but make sure she does her homework.”

“I’m taking my DS and my iPod!” Emma yelled, running from the room and pounding up the steps. I followed at a more sedate pace, picking up the backpack she’d let fall on the kitchen floor. Will stopped me with a hand on my arm. “You sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” But I didn’t
feel
fine; I felt torn apart and downright sluggish as I followed my daughter up the stairs.

I packed Em’s clothes while she washed up. When she came into her bedroom, I patted the bed. “Hey, kid, I want to ask you something.”

The mattress dipped with her weight. Then she noticed the backpack and frowned.
“Mom.”
I sighed as she unzipped the bag and pulled out all of the clothes I’d just packed. “I can pack myself. And I hate these underwear
and
these socks.” She went to her dresser and rooted through drawers, shoving clothing into her backpack without folding. “So, what’s going on?” she asked over her shoulder, turning her attention to the small stack of DS games on her desk.

Emma and I had a pact. We always consulted each other before any major decisions were made. It was my way of making sure she felt included. “So … how would you feel if I took a desk job at the station instead of working out in the city?”

She turned, eyeballing me like I’d sprouted a shiitake mushroom on the tip of my nose. Then she walked over and placed her soft palm on my cheeks and forehead, testing for signs of illness.

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

She stepped back and put a hand on her hip. “Okay,” she said slowly, “and
why
would you want to quit your job?”

I returned her attitude-ridden look. It wasn’t like I was saying I wanted to move to Antarctica. “Because it would be safer that way, and I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Mom. If you do that, who’s gonna help Amanda?”

I blinked. My mouth opened but nothing came out. I’d promised to help Amanda, and I’d also promised myself I’d be a better mom and take a safer job. Two things that couldn’t exactly be accomplished at once. I rubbed my hands down my face and let out a deep breath.

“You can’t quit now. Amanda needs you.” Em straightened, bent one knee, and cocked her hip, giving me her best superhero pose—hands on hips, chin lifted, and eyes looking off into the distance. “Atlanta
needs
you. The very world itself might, one day,
need
you.”

Despite myself, I laughed. She giggled, blew a wild strand of hair from her eye, and then zipped the bag. When she turned to me, slinging the bag over her shoulder, she shrugged, pleased with her summation and logic. “Plus, Hank would never forgive you if you quit.” She waited by the door.

I stood, thrown by her reaction. I’d underestimated her, which was an easy thing to do when you didn’t want your kid to grow up. “Maybe after Amanda’s case then,” I said, more to myself.

“Mom”—she snapped the air a few times, feigning a teenager look and tone—“snap out of it.”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I muttered, following her bobbing form and swinging ponytail down the stairs, and wondering why her reaction hurt.
Because she’s growing up
. What did I expect, her to jump in my arms and cry grateful tears?

I padded barefoot through the kitchen, down the porch steps, and over the front yard, hurrying to catch up with her before she made it across the street. At the edge of the grass, I caught her around the waist. She squealed in fake protest as I laid several kisses on her cheek and neck. She might pretend to be too old for hugs and kisses, but she loved them just as much as I loved giving them. “Have fun,” I said close to her ear and then let her go. Laughing, she hurried around to the passenger side door.

Will slid into the truck and shut the door, leaning out of the open window. “We’ll talk later.”

I really wanted to respond with a “whatever,” but I nodded, reluctant to admit the feelings I still had for him.

His only intentional crime had been hiding his addiction to black crafting. All the other stuff had been out his control at that point. The real Will never would have made that bet, or cheated on me. And I knew he wasn’t crafting these days. Just like drug abuse or alcoholism, once one knew the symptoms and signs, it was easy to spot a black crafting addict. It left a weak scent of soot on them, like charred pieces left for years in an old, damp fireplace, and it left a trace of smut, of darkness, on a person. It surrounded them like an aura, but it was so faint it was hard to detect if you weren’t looking for it.

I stepped onto the front lawn, watching them drive down the street until the truck disappeared around the corner. Exhaustion fell over me like a heavy down comforter. It was only late afternoon and already my body wanted to shut down. It had been one hell of a day so far. Maybe with Em gone, I could actually get in a good nap before heading back to Underground later with Hank.

I made my way back inside the house and up the stairs.

In my bedroom, I stripped off my clothes and could smell Will everywhere, all over me. It felt good, which surprised me. I thought I’d feel something more along the lines of sadness and grief for what we’d lost, but I only felt comforted by the remnants of his presence.

Leaving on my underwear, I slipped under the covers, pulling them all around me, and snuggled down deep in the cool sheets.

Yeah, this was definitely what I needed.

The hospital morgue.

Two women were there. One on the cold, narrow table. And the other, a thought or conscience without form, hovering above, looking down at the sight with confusion and mild curiosity. That figure on the table was revolting. Gray, bruised, and beaten. Skull cracked open. Dead.

She, the one above, tried to remember by what. Was it a baseball bat? A crowbar? An iron staff?

The woman on the table was naked, covered to her armpits with a white sheet. She was a complete mess, but she hadn’t always been that way … She’d been pretty once. Had liked the shape of her breasts and her long legs. Liked the way her wavy mahogany hair brushed her lower back when she was naked. She liked the dimple when she smiled and the pouty lips that always drew men’s eyes. She’d been happy once.

Something tugged hard on the consciousness floating above the body, pulling her toward the ceiling. A light was there. But it was far, far away and before it swam shadows, darting in and out of the murkiness. She wondered if she could dodge the shadows without trial and pass into that soft, beckoning light.

No, no, she couldn’t go. Not yet.

She couldn’t remember why, but knew there was a reason, a monumental reason, why she couldn’t go.

Still, the light tugged.

Others came into the room. She could see their shapes but not their features; only the body on the table remained vivid and clear to her. They spoke, and it sounded as though the voices were underwater. She pulled away from the ceiling to hover closer.

“Can she be saved? She’s been gone for some time,” the tall figure said. He wore black. Perhaps it was hair, but it could’ve been a hood. She couldn’t tell. His voice, though muffled, was deep and powerful.

He was
somebody.
Somehow she knew this.

“If she can’t, then this won’t hurt her,” the other said. He was swathed in white. Perhaps it was a lab coat or a cloak, but he had no hood. His hair was brown, and he was tall, just not as tall as the other. “But if she can,” he said, “then all our work will be worth it.”

He pulled the white sheet to her waist, revealing her breasts, her startling injuries, and the bruises on her chest where they’d performed CPR. He turned her wrist, revealing the soft part of her arm. Then he stuck a needle into her vein.

The dark one smoothed her hair from her forehead, hair that was matted with blood. He whispered to her.

The light from behind pulled stronger. The shadows dipped and flew closer, crying out in screeching misery, though the volume was dulled by an unseen barrier.

The dark one looked up at the ceiling abruptly as though he sensed something there, but after a moment he turned his attention back to the woman.

The consciousness was caught suddenly in a tug of war; the light pulling her upward and the dead woman on the table pulling her down. Panicked, she fought against both.

“Now, we wait,” the white one said.

Amid the panic, she still knew she had to go back, had that reason, that thing just on the edge of her memory. And she was afraid of the shadows, afraid they’d get her before she could make it to the light. So she dove toward the body, away from the screams and cries of the shadows and away from the peace of the light.

And before she lost the sense of being separated, she realized as she melded with her body, that she’d just dove straight into hell.

She screamed inside.

Fire. Dear God, she was on fire!

The rush was so loud and hot, her eardrums felt as though they bled lava. And then the images started, bursting through her damaged, swollen mind. So much pain. Everywhere. She wanted to die, and she would have if she hadn’t already. Death. Murder. Sex. Blood, so much blood. Dark figures. Torture. Pain. And power. Dark power. It hurt. Hurt because there was light, too, and it battled inside her, tearing her apart, fighting for domination. Good things. Good deeds. Love. Growth. Seeds sprouting through green grass, unfurling and growing into sturdy, ancient trees. Crows cawing endlessly. The drip of water. It was too much, too many images, too quickly. She screamed again.

And then she was outside in a circular meadow, naked under a full moon. Surrounded. On her knees. And the man in black and the man in white took turns slicing away small pieces of her flesh, like children who dole out portions.

This piece is mine, that piece is yours. One for me, one for you.

I shot up into a sitting position on the bed, my heart thumping hard and fast against my rib cage. My fists clenched the sheet, and my eyes were wide open, but unfocused. My lungs burned as adrenaline pumped through my system, tasting like dry iron on my tongue.

Breathe, Charlie. No big deal. Just breathe.

Repeating the mantra over and over, I felt the adrenaline finally slow, allowing me to draw in long drafts of air until my lungs didn’t hurt so much.