Darkness Brutal (The Dark Cycle Book 1) (2 page)

TWO

There’s a line all the way down the block at SubZero when I get there. The club pulses blue neon light, giving the lemmings waiting for their turn at depravity an alien hue. Music beats at the air, and the smell of liquor spills out into the street. Some people crane their necks to watch the limos that pull up every few minutes; some just stand and talk on their cell phones like it’s totally normal to see Kesha or Timbaland a few feet away.

You’ve got to love LA.

I’m standing across the street calling my sister, Ava, to check on her.

I listen to the line ring and flex my chewed-on hand.

What the hell
was
that? Demons can’t just bite humans. No way. If I wasn’t looking right at the bite on my own hand, I wouldn’t even believe the memory.

It’s a full moon tonight, so everything is bound to be a little off kilter. But that doesn’t mean demons can randomly get through the Veil. And bite you. There’s an order, rules to the spiritual realm. And they never change. I’ve had them ingrained in my brain ever since I can remember. It’s knowledge I was born with—one of the many things Mom always said I had to hide from people. Just as much as I have to hide it from the demons or ghosts that know I shouldn’t be able to look them in the eye.

Keep it hidden, keep it safe.
That’s what my mother always said. And she was right. People can’t handle the truth about what’s around them. So I don’t mention my “abilities” to anyone. Ever. I let them stay blissfully unaware of the hidden orders that make up the spiritual world that intersects with this one.

And my ability to see ghosts, demons, and angels, and my innate knowledge about their world—that’s not all I have to hide from people. It’s just the tip of the iceberg. After all, how would people react if they knew I can smell emotions or tell if someone’s lying? Or that I speak and understand ancient languages as if they were my own? Or that I have this endless codex of sacred texts in my head?

I’m used to it; it’s all a part of me, like the dark color of my hair. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to hide it.

My sister is “different” too, but Ava is nothing like me.

The line rings and rings in my ear, but no one answers. I hang up at the sound of her voice mail message and try again.

I look down at my mangled hand again. This demon bite means something. Maybe not something to do with Ava, but still, I can’t be too careful when it comes to her. Especially because it’s that time of year again: her birthday month. I’ve been outside her foster home every few nights, checking on her. It’s the best I can do for now, since I can’t take care of her on my own.

She still doesn’t answer her phone. Panic starts crawling to the surface, but I force it down. She’s eleven, almost twelve. It’s not like she’s at the most responsible age.

But she’s not a normal girl. She knows what’s at stake.

I start to turn away from the club, heading to the bus stop, when my phone vibrates in my hand. “Are you okay?” I answer without saying hello.

“Fine, silly,” she says. “Calm down, or you’ll get an ulcer. I was practicing for the Summer Solstice Festival.” She plays the violin. First chair.

I make myself settle for a second. “Okay. I just want to be sure you’re good. Something happened and I—”

“Tell me, tell me!” she bursts out, sounding more excited than frightened.

“Nothing good,” I say. “But if you’re okay, I’ll come by in the morning. I have to clean this up right now.” I study my hand again.

“You never tell me anything.”

“I tell you what you need to know.”

“Neanderthal.”

I smile. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?”

“I’ll just ask Mom, then.”

My smile disappears. I wait a second to respond so I don’t growl at her over the phone. “We have two weeks until your birthday, Ava. Just two weeks. Can you please keep yourself in check until after that?”

She sighs. “Whatever.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I have music academy.”

“I’ll come early.”

“Great.” But she doesn’t sound thrilled.

It’s silent for a second, and I don’t like the tension. It’s been growing between us for a few months now, like a spring coiling tighter. “Love you, Peep,” I say.

“’Night, demon dork.”

Even as I hang up I feel like it’s not enough. I hate it when things are imbalanced. And I know a lot of this new tension is my own fault. I’m having trouble figuring out her moods lately and what all the emotions mean for her growing abilities. And I admit I can be an ass sometimes. But I love the girl to death. She’s all I have left.

And I made a promise to my mom before she died. To protect Ava. With everything in me. There’s no way I’m going to let myself fail.

I take a deep breath and walk across the street toward the club, deciding I need to focus on one thing at a time. Demon bite, then sister drama.

I move through the crowd outside, putting up my internal walls against the press of emotions as I pass, and make it into the alley and down the stairs to the back entrance without sensing anything too horrible. One of the bouncers—Frank or Biff, they all look alike—stops me.

“I need to talk to Eric,” I say.

He notices my wounded hand and makes a face of disgust.

“I’m on the list,” I add. “Aidan O’Linn.”

He glances at his clipboard, finds my name, and opens the door, waving me past.

In the darkness of the club the black walls glow purple from the lights on the floor, and the beat of the music throbs in my chest. There’s a scattering of people standing in line for the bathroom. I keep my eyes on the floor, seeing only shoes as I head down a side hall and up a staircase to the office door.

I knock and try to ignore the growing pain in my hand. It burns like hell. The flames spread through my body with my pulse. Must be the damn demon spit. I swallow the sting, wondering what’ll happen next.

Another bouncer opens the office door. His wide shoulders fill the doorway.

Behind him, Hanna stands in front of a wall of glass, looking down at the mass of bodies writhing on the dance floor. She turns to me and frowns. “Aidan, what happened?”

“I was stupid.” I walk past the large guard and collapse onto the couch facing the window. My stomach growls.

“Get Eric,” she tells the bouncer, then goes to her desk, pulling an apple from the drawer. She holds it out to me, and I only hesitate from pride for a second before taking it.

I make myself eat it slow, even though I want to scarf it down in three bites. She sits and lets me chew in silence, which I’m thankful for.

Hanna’s sort of mom-ish. Her eyes are kind, and she seems strong, like life doesn’t affect her the same way it affects others. She’s seen too much of it, maybe. She’s in her midthirties and has smooth skin the color of rich soil. Her features are model perfect and never seem to age. I’m sure men want her, but by the way she looks at Eric, I think she’s already taken. She helps him run the club so he can do his side work without too much notice.

Side work. More like an obsession. He trades in ancient artifacts and is an expert in demon lore and all things biblical and Bronze Age. His collection of spirit bowls and amulets, not to mention his many yellowed scrolls, puts the Smithsonian to shame.

“Eric got more phones for the staff. Do you need a new one yet?” she asks.

“No, this one’s good.” A perk of working for Eric. Homeless boy gets a cell.

“I’ve got something for you,” she says, bringing a small stone box across the desk toward her. “We found it at an estate sale. Eric wanted me to give it to you.” She lifts the lid off and pulls a thin chain from inside. A small charm dangles on the end.

I hold out my hand, and she places it on my palm. The charm on the necklace is a
hamsa
, an amulet in the shape of a hand—silver inlaid with colored glass. It’s a ward against the evil eye and sometimes an object of luck. It creates a sort of bubble around the keeper, muffling any negative activity around them. Mom gave me one for my sixth birthday, but it got lost in all the moving around we did back then. It feels good to have one against my skin again. I’d like to pass it on to Ava. She needs it more than me right now.

“I can’t pay for this,” I say. They’re worth a good seventy bucks brand new.

“Eric said if you want to trade for it, you can, but he insisted you need it.”

“I don’t have anything to trade,” I say, rolling the charm in my palm. Unless you count a Stephen King paperback as collateral.

“Then you can do something for me instead.” She hands me a piece of paper. “Call this guy. Eric won’t have work for you until the next shipment of relics comes in, and this guy can help find you work.”

“I don’t need charity.” I study the paper. There’s a phone number on it.

“I know, but this guy . . . he works in odd stuff, like Eric. He helps kids like you. With similar . . . gifts. Kind of like a mentor.”

I hand the paper back to her. “No thanks.” This isn’t the first time she’s tried to push me at some mission, or church, or do-gooder cause. It always ends up the same—with me tossed into the system.

She shakes her head, refusing to take it. “Call him; his name’s Sid. And he can get you steady work—the kind you’re best at. You owe me, remember.”

“I won’t go on the grid, Hanna, you know that. It’ll be foster care before I can even finish reading this guy’s pamphlet. I won’t do that again. I can’t.” Foster care means crowded, filthy houses with drugs and gangs and heavy air, being at the mercy of pissed off men with big fists or women with weird fetishes, and trying to keep my abilities hidden from the demons lurking in every corner. When I’m under the thumb of strangers, I have no way to keep the
other
stuff out of my space without looking like an OCD freak. I’m
not
going back to that.

Hanna folds her graceful arms across her chest. “You’re being stubborn, Aidan. This man can get you what you need. No grid. No social services. And he can help you with your gifts.”

I pause and look at the phone number again, wondering if I’m pushing away a miracle. No one can help me with my “gifts,” or whatever they are, but Hanna doesn’t understand that. Still, with more steady money, maybe I could take care of Ava for real, get myself off the street.

“I’ll think about it,” I say and slip the piece of paper and my newly acquired
hamsa
into my pocket.

“He’s helped a few boys like you get back on their feet. I think he could use someone with your talents.” She smiles. “You’ll fit right in there. You’ll see.”

Eric comes in the office. He’s dressed in his usual five-thousand-dollar Italian suit and five-hundred-dollar shoes. His golden hair is slicked back, and dark-rimmed glasses frame his cool hazel eyes. No one would guess by looking at him that he spends his days poring over crumbling manuscripts and digging through piles of ancient bones. But Eric likes to fool people, pretend he’s all about the green. It helps him fit right in—this is LA, after all. It also helps him find the really rare stuff no one in brainy circles even knows about. Black market is where the meat is, he always says. If it’s legal, it’s probably not worth his time. I’ve helped him sniff out some of these goodies, detecting the energy they carry—or letting him know when something’s authentic. It’s why he lets me come around without trouble. Why he helps me sometimes.

I met him outside my last foster house. He came by a garage sale my foster mom, Theresa, was having. Eric came up and asked if we had any old vases or urns available. I thought it was such an odd question. And he was so shiny and slick looking; he really didn’t fit in with the neighborhood at all. I told him Theresa didn’t own anything made before 1980, and he laughed and then asked if I wanted to work for him.

I wasn’t quick to say yes, but once I realized I wouldn’t be selling my body or my soul, I jumped into Eric’s world with both feet, running away from foster care and living wherever I could find a place to set up wards—protections against darkness—and crash. The money isn’t great, but the freedom is heaven. And Eric seems to get it. He knows I’m different and accepts it without question. The first and only guy I’ve met like that.

He listens as I tell him what happened tonight, then goes to a cupboard and gets out some first aid stuff, setting it on the table beside the couch.

“A demon bite. That’s a first, Mr. O’Linn.” He seems confused as he studies my face, looking for something, but I don’t have any answers. I assumed he’d be more freaked out. He’s calm as always, though.

“Clean it well,” he says to Hanna. “I need to get something out of the safe. I’ll be back.”

I unwrap the mess of my left hand, and Hanna helps me clean the wound with alcohol. Needlelike teeth holes pepper my wrist and hand, the bright red welts warping my tattoo. Or birthmark. Whatever. I’m not sure what the design on my hand is. I don’t recall getting the mark—I could’ve been born with it for all I know, though that feels impossible.

Who am I kidding? I live impossible.

The mark is a kind of knot made of letters all woven together, not that I know what it says. It reaches from the base of my middle finger across the back of my hand and then curves around the outside of my left wrist. It’s dark brown in color, a few shades darker than my skin, like faded henna.

I’m fairly tan, unlike my pale mom and sister. Maybe my dad was from India.

Or maybe he was from Mars.

I’ll probably never know. It’s not like I’ll ever be able to ask my mom.

Eric comes back with some herbs and an amulet. He lights the cluster of herbs—called a smudge—and sets the amulet on the back of my hand where the wounds are deepest. It’s made of pure gold, a cleansing metal. Engraved on the piece is what looks like a leaf and a sword, and Greek lettering around the edge that reads
earth
or, more accurately,
soil
.

“Now, it says to clean a spiritual wound, you’re supposed to say Psalm 91.” He waves the smudge over my hand, letting the smoke billow over my skin in grey puffs, then he offers me a slip of paper with the verse on it.