Darkness Brutal (The Dark Cycle Book 1) (4 page)

She grabs my wrist, stopping the words in my throat. “Stay.”

What? This girl doesn’t know me from Adam. “I don’t think your parents will approve.”

She frowns and shakes her head, then says into the pillow, “Not home. Paris.”

I sigh and look around the room, trying to decide what the hell I’m supposed to do. She’s home. Safe. That’s enough. She’ll wake up in the morning and forget all this, thinking one of her clever rich buddies brought her home—the same ones that nearly raped her in an alley.

Her naïveté makes my chest tight.

She starts to sit up and moans, covering her mouth. “Oh, God, I’m gonna hurl,” she says through her fingers. Then she stumbles from the bed before I can help her and starts crawling to a doorway on my left—probably a bathroom.

I grab her and lead her to the toilet, barely making it before she explodes again.

Lovely.

I hold her hair, vaguely noticing its strawberry strands twisted around my fingers. I rub her back and curse myself for caring about her at all. She wouldn’t be so eager to hang with me if she was in her right mind.

We sit there for what feels like hours, her body trying to rid itself of poison. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or drugs those bastards might’ve slipped in her drink, but she’s going to regret it in the morning either way.

After a while, the convulsions subside and her breathing evens out. She’s falling asleep with her head on the toilet. I nudge her a little and help her wipe her mouth with some toilet paper.

“Thanks, Charlie,” she slurs, calling me that for the second time tonight. Then she goes totally limp in my arms.

I immediately check her pulse and her breathing; both seem normal. She’s just passed out. Hopefully.

I wait a second to see if she’ll wake up and barf again, but it seems she’s done for now, so I carry her back to the bed. I lay her down and then just stare at her: her pale brow, beaded with sweat, her fluttering eyelids, purple-lined lips.

I can’t leave her alone like this.

Shit.

I go downstairs to find the kitchen and get her a glass of water for when she wakes up. The hum in the air grows a little when I walk into the large room. The family must’ve had the argument in here over bowls of tofu and grapefruit.

By the hum, it feels like the argument was at least a few days ago. Makes me wonder how long she’s been alone.

I shake off the questions and get the glass of water, then head back upstairs. I set the glass on the bedside table, suddenly feeling completely out of my element.

I haven’t been in a home for so long, I almost forgot what it’s like. I’ve been in houses, but not
homes
. I lived in houses—too many—with roofs and walls and anger and darkness and bruises. But I haven’t been in a home for . . . well, since Ava lived with the Marshalls. After they adopted her, I got to visit a few times.

Then they were dead. And there was only a nine-year-old, blood-splattered Ava left behind, her eyes so big and blue that night, looking like they held all the pain of the world in them. Her tiny hands and arms were coated in crimson to the elbow from the spell she’d done to protect herself.

Now she lives with a foster family—her third one in three years. She gets to be passed around from house to house, like I did all those years. No more
home
.

Supposedly my mom, Fiona O’Linn, had family in the city a long time ago—grandparents, I think. But if they’re alive, they haven’t done anything to help me and Ava. And I’m not sure I’d even want Ava to have anything to do with the people who raised my mom. Fiona was broken inside, and they did nothing to save her.

I run my fingers over Rebecca’s desk. It’s covered in notebooks and colored pencils, smears of paint and ink. There’s a collage of photos above it on the wall. A boy with dimples and freckles and sun-bleached red hair is in several of them. In the most prominent picture, he has a surfboard under one arm and a girl who looks like a younger version of Rebecca under the other; she’s looking up at him like he’s made of gold. There are photos of other people, too—normal high school kids, raising red plastic cups or making funny faces. Everyone’s hugging, laughing, living life in bright colors.

I look over the rest of the room. There’s an empty easel in the corner. A few posters on the walls of singers like Adele and Florence and the Machine, and movies like
The Notebook
and
Twilight
.

Then I notice something on the floor. In the far corner beside the easel are bits of paper scattered everywhere. I go over and pick up one of the larger scraps. It’s a fragment of artwork—part of a wing. Yellows and blues rage in the background. I stare for a second at the other pieces by my feet. Drawings of some kind, all torn up. The sight makes me feel uneasy, but I’m not sure why.

I put the scrap of paper back on the floor with the rest of the pile. Then I go to the small bookshelf and look at the titles. My eyes glaze over the teen romances and vampire novels, until they find something more palatable:
Les Misérables
. I sit on the floor and lean my back against the side of the bed, telling myself not to get too comfortable.

Mom’s sitting in her pentagram on the floor, black candles resting on each point of the star. The shifting flames make the light look like it’s dancing on the walls in deep oranges and reds as she whispers in Latin, a benediction.

My insides go cold, but I stand and watch, shivering in the doorway as the darkness comes alive. I’m only six. And it’s my mom. She knows my secrets, my terrors. She wouldn’t do anything wrong . . .

FOUR

Something pokes my cheek.

I blink and squint at the sunlight beaming into the room. Did I fall asleep?

Something pokes again. “Hey!”

I look up and see the girl, Rebecca, holding a pencil with one of those frizzy-haired trolls on the end. Her own hair is in a nest of red tangles, her green eyes are rimmed red from last night’s drama, and she’s got glittery lip gloss smeared down her chin. She’s frowning at me, body tense. She looks pissed.

“Who the hell are you?” There’s a phone in her other hand, held like a weapon.

I scramble up and back away. “Did you call the cops?” My legs get ready to bolt.

She looks down at the phone like she forgot she’s holding it, then back at me. “Maybe.”

I relax a little, seeing the red spark of the lie in her eyes. “Maybe not,” I say, raising my brow at her.

She chews on her bottom lip. “You brought me home? That was
you
last night?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Do you remember anything?”

“Some,” she says. “Thanks . . .”

“I live to serve.” I give her a mocking bow and start to leave the room, ready to get back to where I know the rules.

“Wait.”

I pause in the doorway. She’s pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s trying to hold back pain.

“Don’t go,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“Just hold on.” She groans and falls back down on the bed. “God, my head is pounding.”

“Drink some water, it’ll help.”

She squints at me, so I point at the glass I’d set beside her bed. She looks at it for so long that I start to worry. Then—God, help me—a tear slips from her eye.

All I can do is stand there, shifting my feet, unsure how to react. After a few seconds of silence I say, “Listen, I’m sorry if I scared you. I meant to be gone before you woke up. I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”

She wipes the tear away and sits up, taking the glass in her hand. It trembles in her grip as she lifts it to her mouth. When the water’s gone she sets the glass back on the side table and then stares at the floor.

I can’t stand the awkward anymore, so I motion to the door and say, “I’ll just—”

“No. Please.” She looks up at me. “I can’t be alone.”

Seriously? This girl needs a lecture about being too familiar with strangers. Maybe I should sing her that “Stranger Danger” song you’re supposed to learn in kindergarten.

“I don’t bite, I swear,” she adds.

“How’re you so sure that I don’t?”

She lays back on the bed again and stares at the ceiling. “I don’t care.”

Something is very wrong here. I try to feel for spirits or old emotions again, something to point at why she looks so lost, why she doesn’t care about herself, but there’s just that distant hum in the air.

“I can’t stay,” I say. I need to check on Ava this morning before she goes to the academy.

Rebecca doesn’t move.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I add. “You should be more careful, Rebecca.”

She startles at the sound of her name and sits up. “How . . . ?”

“Your license. The same way I knew where you lived. Like I said, you need to be more careful.”

She seems to settle. “My name’s not Rebecca. Well, it is, but everyone calls me Emery.”

I look her over. “Rebecca suits you better.”

Her eyes go glassy again, and another tear slips down her cheek.

“Or not.”

“You could take a shower,” she says, like she’s looking for a different subject. She motions to her bathroom. “You can shave, or whatever. I might be able to find some clothes that’ll fit you.”

She stands, only leaning a little, and goes into the bathroom and through another door on the other side. After a second she comes back with some jeans, a T-shirt, and another hoodie (a really thick one, with a fur-lined hood). She sets the guy’s clothes on the foot of the bed. I guess she must have a brother.

“There are towels in the bathroom cupboard.” She’s motioning with her hands as she talks, looking distracted. “And there’s a razor in the medicine cabinet you can use. Should be some shaving cream in there, too.”

I want to jump at this chance to get clean, but it’s all so freaking weird. “What’s going on? Why are you doing this?”

She frowns at me like she doesn’t understand the question. “It’s no big deal. If memory serves, you had a hell of a night last night. Kinda my fault. You should shower, relax . . . eat some of my dad’s food. He’s not here to care.”

Ah, I see. Daddy issues. “Last night you said your parents are in Paris.”

“Just my dad. With his new girlfriend. Mom escaped him long ago.” She scoffs, “He told me the trip was for work, but he packed
way
too many T-shirts. And the girlfriend was all giddy when she came over for the good-bye dinner. Bitch.” She frowns at the wall, then turns back to me. “So do whatever you want. My dad’s house is your house.”

I glance at the nice clothes, then at her, trying to decide. I have a good hour and a half before Ava leaves for practice.

“I’m gonna go shower in the master bedroom,” she says. “For, like, an hour.” She sighs and pulls clothes from the closet, then leaves without another word.

I stand in the middle of the room for a second—but just a second—before I slip my shoes off, my hoodie, my shirt and pants, leaving them in the middle of the floor. Then I go look for the shaving supplies.

I’m not sure how long I’m in the shower—the hot water feels so damn good. I wash my hair three times with the mango shampoo and scrub my skin until it turns red. I’m going to need new bandaging for my hand, but I don’t care.

When the temperature of the water finally turns lukewarm, I step out of the glass enclosure, reveling in the billows of steam around me. I grab a towel and bury my face in the cotton, captivated by the spring smell. It’s like drying myself with a cloud.

The teeth marks on my hand are almost completely healed now. Apparently demon bites aren’t like regular bites, because I know I don’t have any super healing powers.

And then I notice something else. My mark. It’s different. The part that winds up past my wrist is halfway to my elbow now; it’s grown thinner vines and more shapes and curves.

I stand there staring at it, completely stumped. Could the demon bite have done something to it?

Damn. More questions. Wonderful.

I decide for now to stick it all in the dusty file called “My Screwed-up Life.” There are plenty of more pressing things to worry about at this point—like Ava approaching her twelfth birthday.

I wrap the towel around my waist and open the bathroom door, heading for my new clothes. My feet stop. So does my heart.

Rebecca’s lying on the bed, on her side, looking at a magazine. In her underwear.

Her fucking underwear.

She looks up and smiles. “You must’ve been really dirty.” Her eyes travel over my torso, and she bites her bottom lip as the heat of her intention fills the space between us.

I make myself study the floor, but it’s too late. The image of her is burned in my brain: hair falling in damp strands around her face like amber seaweed, black lace panties against milky white skin, a smooth belly with a monarch butterfly tattoo on her ribs, just below her breast.

And . . . God. Oh, God.

She’s a virgin.

This girl is offering herself to a stranger, and she’s a virgin.

Someone who’s had sex carries soul marks on their neck, chest, or shoulders—a palm print for each partner, like a brand.

Rebecca’s skin is white as snow.

I grab the clothes off the bed and go back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

Shit shit shit.

It takes a million deep breaths to get control of myself. I lean on the counter and think about demons and guts and blood. I can’t get dressed until the horrors overwhelm the burning—which takes way too long for my own comfort.

When I come back out, Rebecca’s fully clothed.

I’m
sort of
relieved.

She won’t look at me, though. She’s pissed again.

“Thanks for the shower,” I say.

She runs a brush through her hair in jerky strokes. “Are you gay or something?”

I bark out a laugh. I can’t help it. “No.”

Her shoulders tense. I see in her eyes that there’s only one other reason I’d reject her offer—she’s not pretty enough.

I let myself step a little closer. “Screwing me won’t help you feel any better.”

She sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the floor. “I just can’t pretend anymore. I don’t want to be alone. I feel like doing something insane.”

I try to convince my body it’s best to walk away. This girl is bad news—a ledge I’m heading straight for. The free fall would be amazing—the landing, not so much. It would be so easy to sit beside her, comfort her, kiss her, touch her until I can barely breathe. Until I can’t stop.

So I say what I know will jerk us both awake. “You were almost gang-raped last night.”

She flinches. “What?”

“I found you with three guys hovering over you in an alley behind the club. They were talking about who would get you first.”

She shivers, and her eyes search the room, like she’s looking for something to prove I’m lying.

“You’re running straight into hell’s arms, Rebecca.” I gather my old clothes as she sits there hugging herself. I tuck the old rags under my arm, grab my backpack, and move to the doorway of her room. “Thanks again for the shower and the clothes.” I start to walk away, but hesitate for a second. I turn back and say, “Be careful,” before I leave her life for good.

I head for the stairs and start down, feeling frustrated and confused. I’m walking away, but I don’t want to. If God loves me, he better let me get laid eventually.

I’m lost in thought, landing on the last step, when a new smell hits me like a wall in the face.

Sulfur.

My heart starts to gallop, beating at my ribs so hard I’m pretty sure it’s leaving bruises. I scan the entry hall, and then I see it. Only a few feet from the base of the stairs: burn marks on the marble floor—three crossing lines, each ending in a symbol of power. A sigil.

A demon was here.

A large one.

There’s no way this is related to the smaller one from the alley last night. This sigil is from some serious demon mojo. I close my eyes and breathe in the air, feeling for the creeper that might’ve left it, trying to tell if it’s still close and how long it stood here, but I don’t sense anything. Just the leftover buzz of lust between me and Rebecca from a few minutes ago.

Whatever was here, it’s gone now.