Darkness Brutal (The Dark Cycle Book 1) (3 page)

But I don’t need it. I hear it in my head:
He who dwells in the secret place of Elyon shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of HaShem . . .

I start reciting the scripture from memory.
“Yoshëv B’šëter el’yôn B’tzël shaDay yit’lônän. Omar l’Adonai—”

Hanna stops me. “What’s that?”

“The verse. In Hebrew,” I say, and continue the recitation. Hanna glances at Eric with a strange look on her face. I forgot she’s still more clueless about me than Eric.

Eric just listens, his features still. When I’m done, he takes the amulet and wraps my hand in some clean bandages. “How did you learn Hebrew?” he asks.

I shrug. “I don’t remember. Maybe I’m secretly Jewish.” Despite my last name, I’ve had a lot of people assume I’m Jewish—Israeli, that is, or Middle Eastern of some kind—from my coloring. But hell if I know.

“You also know Latin,” he says. “I’ve heard you speak that. You even translated that Anglo-Saxon engraving I picked up in Paris last July.” By the tone of his voice he seems to be trying to make a point. It’s not as if he doesn’t know these things about me.

“So what?”

“For a seventeen-year-old who knows so many languages, you could be doing much more than helping a club owner make money on the side. You could be using your talents for something truly amazing and profitable. Why don’t you?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “Do you want to tell us any other languages rolling around in that mysterious head of yours?”

He’s thrown me off guard by asking such direct questions, which makes me open my mouth and nearly reveal to him that I speak Ancient Greek and something else that I think might be Assyrian—plus maybe two or three more languages—but I catch myself and shake my head instead.

Mom made me say it over and over:
Keep it hidden, keep it safe
. If anyone truly knew everything, it would freak them out in a large way. It freaks the shit out of me too, so I get it. I have no clue how I know this stuff, I just do. Like how I know the orders of angels and demons, or can tell on sight if an apparition is a ghost or a time slip, or if someone’s a virgin, or if they’ve ever killed anyone.

Why can’t I just know how to play Xbox or baseball?

It’s like I fell from the fucking sky.

THREE

I let the pulse of the music coat me and mute my surroundings. A mass of people crowd the dance floor of the club, and I sit on an abandoned couch in the corner. The lights beat at the air in blues and greens, and bodies twist and merge to the thunder. I lean back, close my eyes, and try to get lost in it, the smells and sounds of people and their collective high.

Something moves next to me. I look over to find a girl sprawled on the seat beside me, trying to catch her breath. She’s not dressed in the usual club gear, more like a girl who got lost on her way to a beach party: Hurley T-shirt, jean skirt, and red Converse. Her cheeks are flushed pink. Her throat and forehead glitter with sweat. She glances at me like she didn’t know I was there. She licks her upper lip, her eyes not leaving mine. Then she says something I can’t hear.

I point to my ear and shake my head.

She smiles and laughs, lighting up the space around her. She rests her hand on my arm, like we’re friends and I just told her the most hilarious joke, and then she gets up and disappears into the mass of bodies again.

My arm tingles, my body reacting to the moment of contact in a sudden and disconcerting way. I think I’ve had my fill of watching people indulge their baser instincts. I need to get out of here.

The beat of the music speeds up, vibrating faster as I move through the crowd. I try not to touch anyone, which is nearly impossible. All the emotions and appetites are overwhelming, as if the rising rhythm of the music makes their yearnings rise, too. Lust buzzes in the air. A hunger stirs in me, a gaping hole, needing to be filled. With touch.

The touch of female fingers. A hand on my arm, taking my wrist, pulling me into the fray, into the pressing bodies. And I don’t try to escape. I let her take me.

Because I’m tired.

Because I’m a dumbass.

A girl moves in front of me—not the Hurley girl, not the one I was hoping for. She presses closer, so close I can almost taste the salty perspiration on her skin. She has thin, birdlike shoulders, a swan neck, a heart-shaped face, and black hair, long and tangled, turning blue and green with the light. Her hands slide up my chest. She wraps her arms around my neck and tilts her head to look up at me.

Her lips are full and painted dark purple. There’s a dimple in her left cheek that gets deeper with her growing smile. And her eyes . . .

Fog fills my head for a second, interrupting my thoughts.

“Hi,” she mouths, calling attention to her lips again.

And then she’s rising up on her toes, pulling me down to her, twisting her fingers in my hair, her lips smashing against mine.

My body buzzes from her touch, and my hands react, drawing her into me. I drink her in. She tastes like the air around me, hunger and urgency, and—

Green apple Jolly Ranchers?

I grip her sides, her ribs so delicate beneath my fingers. The sweet tang of her teases me, the hunger becoming a monster deep inside. I have to press her closer, tighter, try to feed it, as I feel the fire of her need link with mine.

She pulls back a little and looks at me with wide eyes, like she’s shocked. That’s when I see the mark, a glowing, blue-inked line of what looks like Chinese symbols, trailing down the nape of her neck to her shoulder blade. Symbols that I’m suddenly sure mean
touch this girl at your own risk
.

It’s the only thing I see for a second:
Beware
.
Beware
.

Until her energy reaches for me, wispy tendrils of blue light wrapping their way around my wrists and snaking up my chest.

I jerk away, into the guy behind me, stepping on his girlfriend’s toes. I get shoved—thankfully farther from the hypnotic girl—through a space in the crowd, saying a hundred excuse-me’s even though I know no one can hear them. I find my way out of the press of bodies to the edge of the room again where it’s safe.

It’s time to leave. I should’ve left an hour ago.

I grab my backpack from behind the bar on the way out. In the hall I stop to use the bathroom, splash handfuls of cold water on my face, then make my way out the back door.

The bouncer nods goodnight, but I can’t do much more than grunt as I head past him, up the alley stairs. My hands are shaky. I feel like I got dosed with some sort of paranoia drug. As I move toward the back of the building, I try to get control of the shivering. No taking the bus tonight. I need to walk this mess off. It’s a nice night, and the abandoned building I’ve been crashing in lately is only a mile or two away. Less human contact that way, too.

I start making my way through a small parking lot that’s reserved for club workers. When I pass the last car, air tingles at the base of my neck. My pulse speeds up, the paranoia growing. Something—

A crash and a laugh. Something bangs against a Dumpster to my left, about ten yards away.

I move behind the car, trying to see through the darkness.

There’s three of them. Young men surrounding a body on the ground.

A small demon about the size of a cat crouches in the shadows nearby, watching with beady white eyes. It’s got a bulbous head and a curved spine and is wearing a necklace made of tiny skulls and what look like baby bones. Its claws clench and unclench as it whispers something into the night air, words slow and feather soft.

You’ve got to be shitting me. I know it’s the full moon, but dammit—could this night get any screwier?

One of the guys says, “Prop her up against the Dumpster.”

“Dude, we shouldn’t be doing this here. It’s nasty-ass sick.”

“We could take her to the car.”

“It’s a Porsche, genius.”

“Then you go first. Let’s see you get it up in this place.”

“Whatever. You two pansies can go back into the club. Me and Miss Malibu here will figure it out.”

The ringleader props the girl’s limp body against the Dumpster. Then he pulls up her skirt.

My insides catch fire, and I nearly lose it completely, fighting back the urge to run full tilt at the guy and pound him bloody. But I swallow my rage and make myself think through the tangle in my head. I move slow, slipping closer and closer, silent as a ghost, until I’m right behind them and can see the color of their designer clothes, the sheen of their glossy hair.

“Hey, assholes.”

They spin, the ringleader letting go of the girl so she slides back to the asphalt. Fear pours off them in sticky waves. The cat-demon turns and tips its rotund head at me in curiosity, crawls a little farther away, and then focuses back on the three boys.

Now that I have their attention, I’m not so sure this is a good idea. I’ve done three against one before—defending my space or my stuff—but it usually ends with me in more pain than I like. Up close, I can see they’re just bored rich boys, thin in the soul and thick in the head.

The one on the end backs away a step, then takes off running down the alley.

One down. Two to go.

“Can’t get a date the normal way?” I ask.

“She said she needed to puke,” the taller one says—the ringleader. He’s got the mark of murder on his soul; small fissures grow out from around his left eye like his soul’s been cracked. He smirks, his fear fading as he looks me over. “We were just holding her hair.” A red spark lights his iris for a second, revealing the lie.

The other guy nods his head, mute.

“Aw, how nice of you.” I smile at the ringleader, trying to steady my breathing. “A regular philanthropist.” I move my hand to my back pocket where my knife is—slowly, so they won’t notice—and pull it free, keeping it behind my back. It’s never good to show your hand too soon. If this guy’s killed before, he’s less likely to back down easy.

Ringleader steps into me, testing my resolve. “Don’t butt in, rat boy. Go back to the hole you crawled out of. This is men’s business.”

The mess of his rotten energy comes at me like dark, sticky tar. I grit my teeth, gripping the hilt of the knife harder. “Leave her alone, or I’m gonna get blood all over those nice designer jeans when I cut your balls off.”

The other guy pulls on Ringleader’s shirt. “Come on, man,” he says. “It’s not worth it.”

Ringleader stares at me, his jaw working, the cracks in his soul becoming a little more obvious, like he’s considering killing me, too. “I should kick your ass.”

I stare back, daring him to try.

Logic wins out, and the two of them move away, heading for the street. The demon lingers, though, slinking into the shadows, like it plans on seeing what happens to the girl next. I move my gaze so it can’t tell I’m watching it and put my knife away. I give my insides time to settle for a second and make sure the demon keeps to the shadows rather than coming out to mess with either of us before I turn back to check on the girl.

I kneel next to her, looking her over, checking for a bump on her head, even though I’m pretty sure she just drank too much. Hopefully she wasn’t roofied. Her hair is soft against my palm, her skin milky in the moonlight. And then I realize she’s familiar. This is the beach girl I saw inside. She’s wearing red Converse sneakers and a Hurley T-shirt.

I feel a new wave of rage wash over me, recalling her smile and knowing what these bastards were planning on doing to her—in a parking lot, next to a Dumpster. That light inside her would’ve been snuffed right out.

My hands shake trying to fix her jean skirt, to pull her shirt down. I tap her cheek a little. “Wake up,” I say, hoping, praying they didn’t drug her. She looks so pale. Her head lolls.

I have two choices here: call 911 and open myself up to scrutiny from the cops, or drag her somewhere and leave her so someone else will call—which feels kind of chickenshit.

She moans and pushes away my hand.

“Can you hear me? Open your eyes.”

She shakes her head and frowns like she’s about to say,
It’s not time for school, Mom
.

Seeing she’s somewhat lucid opens up a third option: find her ID.

With apologies, I reach into her pockets.

Bingo! A license.

Rebecca Emery Willow McLane.
That’s a mouthful.

5'5"
.

130 lbs.

DOB: 05/16/1995.

That makes her sixteen. How the hell did she get into the club? Eric won’t be happy.

Her address is in the hills, near Universal.

Near Ava.

The back of my neck prickles, but I shake it off. I’m being too suspicious. I have to force myself not to glance back at the shadows to see if the demon is still there, watching.

I pull my cell out and call Hanna to ask her if I can borrow the car service to get somewhere, and she agrees without question, telling me a car will meet me out back. I hang up and gather Rebecca in my arms. She’s waking up more, but I can tell she doesn’t know where she is. Maybe she does need a doctor.

After about five minutes, a black car pulls out from the garage behind the club. It stops beside us, and the driver rolls down the window. “Looks like she had a bit too many,” he says with a laugh, then motions for us to hurry. Since she’s more awake, I’m able to help her into the cab. I close us in, recite the address to the driver, and we’re on our way—no strange looks, no questions.

I’m not sure if I should be relieved or worried by his lack of concern for the girl.

It’s about a thirty-minute drive with traffic. Rebecca stirs a few times, sighing and mumbling about someone named Charlie. She doesn’t seem drugged, not really. Just really drunk. She turns and rests her head on my chest, nestling into me like a cat as her slim fingers clutch my ratty hoodie. Her hair smells like citrus and mango. And her breath smells like Jack and Coke.

I hope I’m doing the right thing.

We pull up in front of a house that’s set back off the road. A low stone wall encircles the property. The lawn is perfectly trimmed, accented with bushes, and some flowers run along a winding stone path. The windows are dark, and the long driveway’s empty. Ritzy people keep their cars in the garage, though, right?

I check the license again to make sure it’s the right place.

Rebecca stirs and starts to open her eyes, but then she hisses through her teeth and grabs her head, like she’s trying to keep it from exploding.

“You okay?” I ask.

She shrinks from my voice and moans in pain.

“We’re here, Rebecca. I’ll help you to the door, but you’ll have to do the rest.” I get out of the car with her in my arms and tell the driver not to wait. I’ll find my own way back.

Rebecca mumbles something as I half lead, half carry her up the walk, whispering to her, “It’s okay, you’re home now.” She whimpers a protest against my chest.

I study the shadows as we come up to the door, putting my feelers out, looking for the demon from the alley, but it doesn’t seem to have followed us. A little luck, at last.

“Do you have a key?” I ask.

She waves her hand at a potted plant next to the door, then moans again and throws up into the bushes.

I step back as she leans on the wall. She heaves some more and slinks down to the ground.

I find the key in the planter—these people must not care about their crap—and unlock the door. I pick her up and put her arm over my shoulder, ushering her into the dark house. I have to hunch so I’m not dragging her; she’s not helping with the walking much.

Our breathing echoes in the large entryway, her Converse squeak on the marble floor, and no parents come running. But I’m tense, ready for flight any second.

I take in the surroundings, trying to feel for spirits or demons or residual echoes. There’s a slight hum in the air, like maybe there was an argument recently, but otherwise it just smells like Lysol and new paint. There’s the comforting ticktock of a grandfather clock. I look around for a couch to set her down on, but she starts heading to the stairs, so I follow, slowly, up the large staircase, past double doors to what I assume is her room.

Her bed is huge, with thick puffy violet blankets that make a
poof
sound when I set her down. She falls back onto the mattress and rolls onto her side, curling into a ball.

“Okay, so, you’re good. I’ll just—”