Race the Darkness (24 page)

He
was
talking about her dreams. About Gran's ability to enter another person's dreams. But how could he know those things? She hadn't known about her own dreams until recently.

“I am a faithful man, but this task tested me. I tried to save you by making your body a hostile environment for the evil. I was ever hopeful it would leave you, but its roots had grown into your heart and twined themselves around your soul. And now your evil has grown powerful—”

“Isleen!” Xander shouted her name.

She whipped around. He stood next to a stream she hadn't noticed before. Starlight glinted off the water, and the picturesque bank called to mind another image—one of death. Xander's death in her dream. No. This couldn't be happening.

“You've hurt her enough, asshole. I won't give you the chance to hurt her again.” Xander walked steadily forward.

“No.” She finally forced the word from her dry mouth.

Xander's full attention was aimed at the man. “You just keep praying to your Lord, keep asking for his protection. You're going to need it. I intend to kill you with my bare fucking hands.” His tone was a feral growl.

“Xander. No. Go back. This is my dream.” The words sped from her lips.

His concentration on the man wavered and slid to her. Confusion, surprise, and rabid determination flashed in his eyes.

Kkkrrr.
A gunshot.

She startled. So did Xander. Only he didn't really startle; it was the impact of the bullet slamming into his head. His face went slack, his legs crumpled, and she saw the neat hole in his forehead. He fell facedown with a solid
thunk
that jarred the ground underneath her.

She squeezed her eyes shut. This was a dream—a bad, terrible, horrifying dream—and she was going to wake up. She had to wake up. Pain would wake her up. She balled her hand into a fist and punched her broken arm. White-hot agony rolled through her. She almost vomited. She cried out and opened her eyes.

Xander lay where he had fallen. She punched her arm again. Pain blinded her for a blessed moment, then ebbed, and reality swallowed her.

“Nononono…” It was the only word that existed. Somehow she ended up next to him. He lay facedown. She didn't want to turn him over, didn't want to see confirmation of what she already knew, but something stronger than herself reached out to him, tugging his shoulder with her good hand until she finally flipped him over.

The neat, round hole on the side of his forehead was an abomination on her soul. Death stared out from his unseeing eyes. Her insides felt like they were being ripped from her body. Her mind tore from its skull. She heard herself crying and screaming and bawling, even as she laid her hand over his wound, willing herself to heal him, heal him, heal him.

He'd told her that taking away her pain felt cool and satisfying. But all she felt was the scalding heat of his blood trickling from the wound and, underneath her palm, a shard of skull poking her. “You can't be dead. You can't be. You have to live. You have to. I can't do this without you. I need you.” Her voice vibrated with grief and terror.

“He heard me. Heard my thoughts. He was possessed of evil too. I had to… I had no choice. Forgive me. Oh Lord, forgive me.”

Isleen heard the man talking, but didn't pay attention to his words. The only thing that mattered was… “Xander. Xander. Xander.” She chanted his name over and over.

Sirens sounded in the distance, ringing out over the low hills and through the shallow ravines.

“You must come with me now. We need to leave this place.” The man grabbed her arm.

“No!” She turned on him, baring her teeth at him like a cornered raccoon. Her reaction startled him back a step. She wasn't leaving Xander. She was going to heal him.

Emergency sirens screamed through the dark, mixing and blending with the Dragon's anguish until King slapped his hands over his ears just to be able to think beyond the grief and guilt.

He'd been watching and waiting for an opportunity to steal her away. He'd spread the road spikes when it appeared she was finally leaving. Of course, he hadn't anticipated that the truck would end up in the ravine. Number one priority: Get her away from here so the proper ritual could be performed.

When he pulled his hands from his ears, they were damp, the gun slick and slippery in his grip. He tightened his hold on it. Weapon shaking, he aimed it at the man who'd been in the truck with her. The last thing he wanted was to kill an innocent, but she didn't know that.

The Dragon wailed and howled her grief, the sound a vise of guilt tightening down on King's chest. He'd killed. Again. It was the decades of indoctrination that had raised his hand and squeezed the trigger. It was fear. And it was his
duty
. As one of the Faithful, it was his responsibility to eradicate evil from the world. The man had been inside King's head listening to his thoughts.

Logic dictated that King end the man. But murder… Eliminating a corrupt soul was supposed to be right, so why did it constantly
feel
so wrong? In his mind, King could hear Chosen One saying, “
It is not for you to question the laws of the Lord. It is for you to prove your faith in the Lord
.”

But still, the Dragon's sorrow paralleled the horror in King's heart.

“Leave with me now, and he won't be harmed.” His voice cracked.

The Dragon's hand covered the wound in her man's head. The desperate and determined way she pushed palm into flesh made it seem as if plugging the hole in his head would guarantee his survival. Pure denial.

He witnessed it every day on the faces of people whose loved one had died. Denial always made a short show before fizzling out. Years of training and experience had taught him how to handle the emotion. Speak the truth with compassion. “Your man… He has passed on to…” King usually followed it up with a reference to heaven, but this time he couldn't. He didn't know what the Lord intended to do with her man's soul. Or hers, for that matter.

The sirens were closer. So many of them. Probably every squad car in the county. “It's time to come with me, or I hurt the one still living.”

Slowly, she lifted her hand off the wound, then examined the hole in her man's head, fingers dancing around the rim of the damage as if she didn't trust her vision. Denial again.

Her bitter gaze landed on King. She raised her hand to her face and slathered blood over her forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. The result: A warped, morbid mask of death and despair. She looked every bit as evil as the demon inside her.

Revulsion squirmed underneath King's skin like freshly hatched maggots.

Slowly, laboriously, she stood, cradling her broken arm close to her body. She swayed on her feet. Good thing he hadn't planned on her walking the two miles to his car. She wouldn't have made it.

He motioned with the gun, and she walked past him in the direction he indicated. He followed, holstering his weapon and unclipping the stun gun from his waist. He flipped the switch and pressed it into her shoulder. A squeak of pain and surprise slipped from her. She melted to the ground, sprawling on her broken arm. He couldn't help it; he grimaced, knowing how badly that had to have to hurt.

“The pain will all be gone in a moment.” He knelt next to her and pulled the syringe from his pocket, pushed the needle into her neck, and depressed the plunger. The drug should take effect before she recovered from the electrical charge.

Quiet tears slid down her cheeks. Her eyes were the only part of her face not covered in blood. They were big and luminous, like one of those cartoon princesses, but unlike make-believe, they reflected sorrow and suffering and a soul ravaged by real evil. So much pain carried by one small woman. It wasn't natural. Or right.

He couldn't help it. Compassion ached in his throat. He wanted to say something to make things better. It had always been his job to offer comfort and solace to those who were hurting. Now was no different. Despite the blood, despite the evil, he wiped her tears with his fingers.

The moment his skin touched hers, he remembered she would burn him. Only this time she didn't. And wait. He had grabbed her bare arms when she was helping the man out of the truck. He hadn't even thought about it. She hadn't burned him then either.

Evil had departed from her soul, leaving her…just her.

Optimism, delicate as dragonfly wings, fluttered in his heart. This changed everything.
Everything.
Every moment he'd spent on his knees in prayer had led to this. A miracle. She was free. And he owed it all to Chosen One and the Lord. Chosen One had been the one to suggest that the ancestor and the Dragon's evil might be linked. Killing the ancestor had saved the girl.

He reached out and settled his hand on her head—just like his father used to do to soothe his upset. “Go to sleep. Everything will be better when you wake.”

In a soft, low lullaby voice he began singing his favorite hymn.

Devout is my soul,

When all the world looks on.

Pure is my will,

When sinners cry my wrongs.

Calling me to the Lord's Brigade.

Calling me to the Lord's Brigade.

Lord, will you take me,

A soldier in the midst

Of earthly evils,

When devils whisper to me?

Calling me to the Lord's Brigade.

Calling me to the Lord's Brigade.

Cleanse my heart, oh mighty One.

I'll fight for you, oh mighty One.

Blood in your name, oh mighty One,

When I must stay strong.

Calling me to the Lord's Brigade.

Calling me to the Lord's Brigade.

Her eyes slipped shut. Her body relaxed into the drug.

The sirens were all around them. Under the shrieking noise, he heard the rumble of gravel under tires. They were coming up the driveway. Would they see where the truck went over the side?

He wanted to pray over her, but now was not the time for prayer. It was the time for action. Using her good arm, he hauled her up and over his shoulder and then began a slow jog through the dark forest. Any sound he made was hidden by the sirens still blaring on and on.

Her body jostled against his, her head and arms slapping and smacking his back. He didn't want to think about how holding her in this position was further damaging her broken arm. Couldn't be helped. He followed a barely discernible animal trail, brambles and bushes grabbing at them both.

He'd spent many a night out in nature. Had found that communing with God's creation comforted him. But tonight the forest seemed dead. Dead quiet. Where were the peepers and crickets? The only sounds were of his footfalls and the fading emergency sirens. To be so surrounded by the natural world and hear only man-made noises was odd.

It felt like forever and no time had passed when he finally emerged next to his car. He'd hidden the vehicle two miles from the property on an isolated dirt road. He'd learned from his mistake of parking too close. That had nearly gotten him caught the night he killed the ancestor.

A dog howled in the distance. A pet? Or a scent dog? Didn't really matter now.

Oh, so gently, he settled the Dragon in the passenger seat, draping her broken arm across her body, but it kept sliding. He shouldn't take the time for this, but he couldn't leave her injured. He stripped off his outer shirt and tied it around her neck in a makeshift sling. By the dome light, he saw the area just above her elbow swelling. He threaded her hand into the sling, adjusting the fit until her joint was stabilized. The best he could do for the moment.

He got behind the wheel and drove. The car's headlights illuminated an unfamiliar world of winding, hilly, remote back roads. Where he lived, the land was absolutely flat. The night scenery here was eerie and beautiful at the same time. So much like the Dragon had been.

They passed no other vehicles. If it weren't for the occasional solitary house with its lights on, King would've sworn they were the only two people on earth. He reached over and pressed his fingers into her neck, searching for a pulse, wanting to make certain she didn't have an adverse reaction to the drug.

After driving an hour—surely a safe distance away—he pulled over alongside an abandoned road and flipped on the interior lights. She sat exactly as she had the entire drive. Her body leaned against the passenger door, still asleep from the effects of the drug. Tenderly, aware of her broken right arm, he adjusted her position in the seat and turned her head to face him.

He wanted to see her. Really look at her. Take her in. Even when he'd captured her, he hadn't been allowed the time to drink his fill of her appearance. It had been feared that any contact with her could corrupt him.

He grabbed a handful of tissues from the travel-sized box he kept in the console, wet them with the half-empty bottle of water, and began wiping the blood from her face. The tang of tarnished pennies choked out the oxygen. The air was so thick with the scent he could practically taste it on his tongue. His stomach soured, the contents curdling and threatening to erupt, but he pushed on, cleaning her skin until she was fresh-faced and lovely.

He tossed the wad of soiled tissues out the window, then let himself absorb her appearance.

Her face was…his face. He saw himself in the shape of her brows and eyes, in the curve of her lips and the color of her hair. It was as if Shayla contributed nothing to the makeup of their daughter. She would've been so pleased. She had always said she wanted their child to look like him.

Shayla… No. It had been decades and still he couldn't think of her.

He refocused on the young woman in front of him. “Isslleenn.” Her name—the name Shayla had picked for her—felt awkward in his mouth. He'd never spoke her name aloud, had never allowed himself to think of her as
his daughter
. Calling her by Queen's name for her—the Dragon—had always been safer.

But now, things were different. They could have a future. He'd teach her everything he knew about the Lord. He'd make certain the evil never again took root in her. He'd protect her and keep her from harm. Forever and ever. Amen.

* * *

The road ran parallel with the water, winding and curving with the river. Sunshine peeked from the horizon, slanting brilliant rays of gold over the landscape. No matter how many sunrises King experienced, on the river they were a pure, majestic thing to behold, a time when nature and spirit combined to make a godly moment.

He slowed and pulled in next to Chosen One's car. Chosen One leaned against the hood of his expensive sedan, staring out at their sacred place upon the water. He was dressed for work—fine tailored suit and expensive tie, the exact attire one expected from the mayor.

King cut the engine, checked her pulse once more, waited for the thump of it against his fingers, then adjusted the sling on her broken arm. He looked up from his ministrations. Chosen One stood at the hood of the car, glaring in the window. King understood how it looked, and he'd best explain quick before Chosen One—

“You've been corrupted.” Chosen One's voice hit every note of disgust on the scale. His lips peeled back over wide, square teeth in a sneer that made King feel like the bad little boy he'd once been. The vein in the center of Chosen One's forehead—the one that swelled and turned blue when he got angry—bypassed blue and went to apocalyptic.

Oh no.

King grabbed the door handle and yanked it. Locked. He hit the unlock button. The window slid down. He jabbed another switch. The side mirror moved. Why couldn't he find the right button? He punched another knob.
Trnk.
The locks disengaged, and he shot out of the vehicle and fell to his knees in front of Chosen One. His father.

Father raised his hand—a hand slightly gnarled with age—and swung.

It had been decades since Father had last punished him, but King felt as if it were only yesterday that they were here upon the river, going through the same motions about the same things. Only before it had been about Shayla.

King tensed, braced for the blow. His head jolted back, his cheek burned. Father packed enough force to ring a church bell, and the crack of palm to cheek seemed as loud. King wanted to press his hand over the heat on his face, but he didn't move. Wasn't allowed to move.

“You have shamed me, shamed your brothers, and shamed the Lord.” Condemnation was a poison dripping from each of Father's words.

“No. No, Father, it's not like that.” King grabbed the cross dangling from his neck, kissing the warm gold. “See? I'm not corrupted. I'm not. I've done nothing wrong.”

“Silence.” Father's voice boomed, quieting even the river. “You deny you were
touching
her?”

“I do not deny I was touching her. She no longer burns me. You were right. Her power was linked to the ancestor. She has changed. I can no longer feel her evil.”

Father listened, then looked beyond him into the car. “Stay here.”

King didn't move. He kept to his knees and didn't dare look anywhere except forward. He heard the passenger-side door open, then heard nothing else.

Dear Lord, please please please let him see that she is saved. Please please please…
He chanted this over and over until Father returned to his line of sight, carrying Isleen in his arms. He walked past King to the demon box on the bank.

Nooooo
. The primal scream echoed inside King's head but never made it out into the world. His chin trembled, his body shuddered, and he couldn't remember how to breathe. This was
exactly
the same as with Shayla.

Father meant to lock her inside the iron box for six days and six nights. If she survived, it would be proof of her evil. If she died, she would prove her innocence. Either way resulted in death. King wanted to chase after Father, wanted to steal her away from him, drive off with her and never look back, but he couldn't move. An entire lifetime of obedience kept his knees on the ground and his protests in his mouth. He couldn't defy his father, his leader—the one man who communed directly with the Lord.