Race the Darkness (28 page)

“She's going to be fine.”

“Excuse me if I don't take your word for it.”

Bring it on.
Xander had reached full capacity on Kent questioning every goddamned thing he did. He stood, gently pulling Isleen up with him. She swayed on her feet and he wrapped an arm around her waist, tucking her in to him.

Kent rounded their tree—funny how Xander thought of it as
their
tree. The guy stopped, his gaze raking over Isleen. Taking in her splinted arm and the fact that she was actually on her feet.

“Kent, I'm okay.” Her voice sounded light and airy. “I'm just tired and don't feel the greatest, but I'm good.” She sounded too chipper, like she'd just gotten over a cold, not been kidnapped and tortured.

“Jesus Christ.” Kent's head wobbled on his shoulders. “You should be…”

“It's their connection.” Dad moved in front of Isleen to look into her eyes. He reached out, pressed up one of her eyelids, and looked close. “I don't get why you and Matt refuse to believe what's in front of you.” He checked her other eye. “Well, young lady, unless you prefer to go to the hospital, we can take care of all your injuries back home. The Institute is a fully equipped medical facility.”

“I want to go home. But I need to…” Her voice trailed off, the false brightness in her tone flickering and fading.

“Baby, what do you need?” Whatever it was, Xander would find a way to give it to her.

“Kent…” She aimed her attention at the guy but said nothing else.

“What is it?” Kent asked.

Xander could see the guy would do just about anything to make her happy. Same as him. That was part of their problem—Kent was pissed because Isleen kept him in the friend zone.

She pressed herself against Xander. He could hear her heart galloping, her breathing wild. Whatever the fuck she was about to say upset her. He tightened his arm around her, offering her his own solid strength.

“Well…my mom…” Isleen's voice dissolved.

“Shayla.” Dad said the name, expectancy dominating his tone.

“Yeah.” Isleen nodded. “She…died. They killed her. The same way they were trying to kill me. My father said he buried her nearby. Underneath the largest sycamore tree. He said Gran condoned him taking us and letting Queen torture us to get the evil out. That she was trying to save us—me—from the same fate as my mom.”

Her words were a grenade. The explosion of them sending shards of thought through his mind.
Her mom. Her father. Her father killed her mom. Buried her. Largest sycamore tree.

“Fffuuuccckkk…” He looked up at the tree they all stood under. Glanced around. No mistaking they were standing near the grave.

“Not Shayla too.” Dad began shaking his head as if the action could dodge the words, keep them from sinking home.

“Your father? What… Who…” Xander didn't even know what he was trying to ask. He knew less than zip about her father. It'd just never come up. A lot of things hadn't come up. But this—this was big shit.

“The man who took Gran and me. The man who ordered Queen to keep us captive. The man who killed Gran, who shot you…” The silence drew out, skating on the edge of a blade. “He's my father.”

Her words were a shock wave of sound, nearly knocking him back a step.

And yet, Xander had known. Not in the conscious part of his mind, but somewhere underneath he'd known the moment he'd made eye contact with the guy. A piece of him wanted to deny that the truth—not for himself, but for what the truth meant to her. Her own father had killed her mother, killed her grandmother, forced a life of torture on his daughter, and then had tried to kill her too.

“Baby…” He didn't know what else to say. No words were going to make that okay. Dad's eyes were bloodshot and brimming. Kent stood there like a metal post in the middle of a storm. Both men had apparently gone mute.

“It's okay. I'm okay. Really.” Her words came out too rushed. “I know I should hate him. But I don't.”

Her eyes were wide and full of… Xander tried to name the emotion, but couldn't quite find it. Then it hit him. Her eyes were full of empathy. Empathy. For the man who'd tried to kill her. “What the hell?”

“He stayed with me. Never left the entire time I was in that box. He told me how sorry he was, how he didn't want me to die, but that Chosen One demanded it and he couldn't defy Chosen One because he's my grandfather. See? He's not all bad. Not all of him.”

Xander had heard every word she spoke; his mind just wanted to reject them. How could those words pass her lips? Her father had stolen her life when he placed her in that trailer. Murdered her mother and grandmother. Attempted to murder Xander. Participated in trying to kill her today—would've succeeded if she and Xander didn't have a special connection. Yeah, her father had provided Xander the opportunity to save her, but only after she should've already been dead.

“Who you trying to convince? Me or yourself?” He hadn't meant to say it so harshly.

“You don't understand. He—”

“I do understand.” He tightened his hold on her and stared into her eyes. “An evil man eased your torture, and you think that was kindness when it was still torture.”

Isleen flinched as if he slapped her. Shit. What was going on with his mouth? He couldn't control what decided to shoot out of his lips.

“He's not like the others. He didn't
want
to do any of the things he did. Chosen One made him.”

“Baby.” Xander softened his tone. He didn't want to hurt her. Christ, she'd been hurt enough, but the way she was thinking about this was an infection—one he needed to scrape off of her. He wouldn't let her father infect her mind. The man had hurt her body, left her with wounds that would scar over and be constant reminders of what she endured. But Xander refused to let that man stay inside her head. “He
killed
your grandmother. He
shot
me—Chosen One didn't force him to pull that trigger. Your father held you,
let
Chosen One force your face under water. And they were all naked.” His volume rose, couldn't help it. “What did he let all those naked men do to you? What did he do to his daughter?”

“Xander.” Kent said his name as if he were about to draw his gun on him. “That's enough.”

But he wasn't done. He had to finish lancing her mental wounds. “We're standing on a grave. Your. Mother's. Grave.” He pointed at the tree. “Where your father buried her. How can you possibly think he's got an ounce of goodness in him?”

Isleen shoved away from him. Her eyes were misty and murky, bad memories swimming in their depths. And if he cared to be completely honest, he saw a bit of betrayal in her gaze. She'd thought he'd be on her side. But he couldn't be. Not about this. He needed to rip every trace of that asshole out of her mind.

Her chin trembled, and the first of her tears cleansed a path down her cheeks. She stumbled. He reached out to her, but she held her hand up to ward him off. Didn't matter what she wanted. What mattered was what she needed. And she needed him. He grabbed her, pulled her to him. She beat her fist against his chest, two hard thumps of anger, of resistance, and then she sagged against him, sobbing against his heart. The sound cut him to the bone, but crying was good. It meant she was feeling this. Not hiding from it. And not trying to put a shine on the shit.

She was going to be all right.

Isleen stood outside the closed interrogation room. Xander's arm was around her, pressing her to his side. She could feel the tension and anxiety in his muscles. He didn't agree with what she was about to do.

“We shouldn't be apart. Bad things happen when I'm not with you.” Xander's grip on her tightened. She knew he was thinking about the night she drove away from him and everything that happened after. She was thinking about that too. But she needed to see her father. And she wanted to do it alone.

Kent walked out of the interrogation room, shutting the door firmly behind him. “He's ready. I've got him chained to the table and practically bolted to the floor.”

“Thanks, Kent. I appreciate you making this happen.” She tried for a reassuring smile to ease the frown he wore on his face. Xander wore an identical expression.

“You don't have to do this. Kent can handle it.” Concern crinkled Xander's forehead.

“Yeah. No problem. Just let me take care of it.” Kent jumped in, so quick to agree with Xander. “You don't need to deal with him, especially with what you've got going on later.”

Later she had a funeral. Her mother's funeral. The coroner had finally released the body, and they were going to have a sunset service. Somehow the funeral tonight made her want to do this all the more. It sorta brought things full circle—if the circle was a misshapen blob. Doing this—meeting with her father one final time—was part of taking back her life and owning her fate. “I will do it.”

She went up on tiptoe and kissed Xander's chin. “Don't worry. I'll be fine. He can't hurt me, and there's nothing he can say that he hasn't already said to me.”

“I'll promise you one thing.” Kent spoke to Xander. “He pulls any shit, and he's gonna have an accident.” Kent's tone was dead serious.

“Baby, I'll be right here. One fucking step away, listening to everything. He hurts you—I'll fucking kill him.” Fury dominated Xander's tone. She suspected if he got within arm's reach of her father, he'd try to kill the man. Xander bore his own set of wounds over what had happened.

“I'll just be a few minutes.” She sucked in a giant breath, stepped away from Xander, and opened the door. Her legs were numb as she walked in the room and closed the door. The space smelled like a boys' locker room—dirty clothing, old sweat, and guilt. Her father sat, hands cuffed to the table, his head bowed as if in prayer. He didn't look up.

His hair was the same pale shade as hers. From his profile she could see the shape of her own nose and lips, see the similarities in the way their brows arched. After all these years, it was odd seeing her features on another human being.

She didn't mean for it to happen, but tears came to her eyes. One of the aftereffects of everything she'd been through was those dratted tears. They flowed when happy, when sad, when she saw something beautiful, when she felt safe. It was just one of those strange things about her. She decided to embrace it instead of fighting it.

Her father lifted his head. His eyes widened. He gasped and tried to stand, but the cuffs kept him locked to the table. “Isleen…” His gaze locked on her tears.

“Don't think these tears are for you. They're not.” She moved further into the room and sat in the hard plastic chair across from him, meeting him stare for stare. “They're for what might've been. For all the ways our future could've played out but didn't. For all the possibilities that died when you killed my mom.”

“I—”

“Don't.” Her voice was a strong pop of sound. She held up her hand, halting whatever he'd been about to say, then wiped the wetness from her face. “I didn't come here to have a conversation with you. I came here to make you listen.” Her tone was unyielding, the words themselves offering her power. “You've taken from me, but that stops right now. It doesn't matter if Gran condoned our treatment at Queen's hand. What matters is that I
know
Gran loved me. And I won't let you steal that from me.

“You will never be anything to me other than the man who kidnapped me and commanded Queen to torture me all those years. You are a coward for not saving your wife from that box, and something lower than a coward for not saving your daughter. Forever you will just be someone who hurt me. Never my father. After I walk out that door, don't ever try to contact me. I want you to forget that I exist because that's what I'm going to do. Forget you.”

She stood up. Stared down at him. His chin trembled—just like hers always did. Tears slicked his cheeks, but he didn't say anything. Silence was his only gift to her.

As satisfying as it had been to speak her words, there was one last thing she needed to say to him—the entire reason for her visit. “You decided to believe Gran and I were evil because of our abilities. You are wrong. Last night I had a dream. This afternoon, an inmate will be placed in the cell next to yours. He's going to have red hair and an eye tattooed on his cheek. He's going to ask you to come closer to the bars to pray with him, and then he's going to stab you in the neck with a sharpened plastic knife. You'll die. That was my dream. So you see, this thing you always thought was so evil about me… I use it to save lives. Even yours.”

His face morphed through a menagerie of emotions, stopping finally when his features crumpled and he began sobbing. He looked directly at her while he cried, not even bothering with the dignity of trying to hide his emotions.

She turned and walked from the room.

It probably made her a bad person, but Isleen couldn't help it—she didn't want to go to her own mother's funeral. In so many ways it would be like attending the funeral of a stranger. The sun dipped behind the tree line, kissing the forest with a warm golden glow as she and Xander made their way up Cemetery Hill. Xander squeezed her hand, the simple gesture conveying so many emotions—strength and reassurance and concern. He worried too much about her. Not that she blamed him. After everything they'd been through, it was understandable. Only time would ease his mind.

The graveyard was old, the stones mere white slabs, names long ago worn off by wind and weather. The clearing where it rested was peaceful and quiet and filled with a serenity she hadn't noticed the last time she'd been here, but then she hadn't exactly been in a sane frame of mind.

Her gaze found Gran's grave. Isleen braced for an emotional blow at being in this place again, being reminded of everything that came before, but only soft sorrow caressed her.

A new mound of fresh dirt resided next to Gran's grave. Her mother's grave had already been filled in. No empty hole. No coffin. No glaring reminder of death.

Next to the two fresh graves, a large red-and-white-checked blanket was spread on the ground. Row, Alex, and Matt all casually sat there as if getting ready for a family picnic instead of a funeral.

“I don't understand what's going on.” Isleen's legs stopped moving, her mind unable to assimilate the graveyard and the cheerful picnic blanket.

Xander put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “This isn't going to be like last time.” His arm around her nudged her forward.

Row glanced up as they approached. In the late day's sun, her hair seemed darker—almost eggplant in color, while her tattoos seemed bolder. “They're here.” She announced as if Isleen and Xander were special guests. “I'm in charge of this here party. And that's what it's going to be. A party.” She threw her hands out theatrically as if introducing the stage production of
My Mother's Funeral
. “This is going to be a celebration of life—your mom's and yours—instead of a damned melancholy rehashing of all the fucking losses.” She held out a fat square book to Isleen. On the cover in bold letters: PHOTOS. “You sit down and look through these pictures before you lose too much of the light. And we'll tell you about your mother.”

Isleen's body reacted before her mind fully plugged in to Row's words. She took the album and sat on the blanket like a kid waiting for story time. Finally, she was going to learn about her mother. She had so many questions—a lifetime of questions that she'd stored up—but in this moment, she couldn't remember any of them.

Xander sat behind her, spreading his legs out on either side of her. Even though she was among friends, she felt as if he was protecting her, blocking her from any potential threat and buffering her from pain. He looked over her shoulder at the album in her hands.

“Go ahead. Open it.” His breath was warm and sweet against her temple.

Anticipation warmed her chest. She held a great gift in her hands. One she'd never expected. “Thank you.” The words burst from her. “I never thought I'd get to see pictures or hear stories.”

Her hand trembled as she opened the book. A beautiful, dark-haired girl—not quite a child, not quite a teenager—held a rainbow bouquet to her nose. Her face alight with pure joy. She looked like Gran. It was in the warm color of her eyes, in the tilt of her head, in the shape of her features. “This”—she pointed to the photo—“is my mom.” It wasn't a question. It was a statement of awe.

“Yeah.” Xander breathed the answer in her ear and reached down to run a finger over the picture. “She loved picking wildflowers. She put vases of them all over the house during the spring and summer. She even put them in my room, but I was too much of a boy to appreciate them.”

“But she didn't always care if they were wildflowers.” Row's eyes were misty with memories. “She once picked every bloom in Gale's zinnias patch and made bouquets with them before anyone could tell her not to.”

“Don't forget about the roses.” Alex leaned in to see the picture. “Gale couldn't keep a bloom on a rosebush. Shayla would wait until her mother wasn't looking and then snip them all off and put them in a pretty vase, or make a bouquet, or just float them in a bowl of water.”

“No matter how many times we explained to leave some flowers on the vine, she just couldn't do it. Said they should be enjoyed.” Row turned around and began rummaging in the large picnic basket behind her.

“We all thought she was going to grow up to be a florist.” Matt's voice was soft and full of genuine affection. Something Isleen hadn't witnessed before. He had cared for her mom. “She knew I wasn't into the whole flower thing, so she'd make me a bouquet of dried willow branches or pinecones. They were pretty clever.” He leaned over to take in the photo. “It's a little worse for the wear, but I still have the pinecone bouquet in my room.”

“I would love to see it.”

He sat back and seemed to pull his mantle of surliness back around himself. “Sometime.”

Isleen flipped the page, but the dusk had faded and it was more dark than light out. She held another picture up close to her face, willing herself to see the image.

An older version of her mom—maybe in her early teens. She lay on her stomach on the floor with a board game open, smiling at the cutest little boy—Xander.

His face hadn't been scarred yet, his gorgeous hazel eyes untouched by life's pain, and he wore a smile of pure angelic mischief.

“Aww… How old were you?” she asked, turning to hold the photo up for Xander to see.

“I don't even know.”

“I got him that stupid game for his fifth birthday.” Matt's tone was nostalgic. “Everyone hated that damned game and wouldn't play it with him, except Shayla.”

“Five years old…” The light had dimmed so the image was no more than shadowy shapes, but Isleen couldn't take her eyes off the picture.

A bright golden glow lit their small circle. She looked away from the photo to birthday candles burning atop a cake. A chocolate cake with a sweet mound of cherries in the center.

Her breath caught in her lungs.

“Happy Birthday to you.” Everyone sang together, their individual voices off-key and not quite in unison, but perfect. Beautifully perfect. Their smiling faces all lit with an orange glow. This—these people, her new family—was what her life was going to be about. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Isleen. Happy birthday to you.”

“Christ, that sounded awful.” Matt laughed.

Happy tears swelled and spilled. Isleen laughed and wiped them away.

“And many more,” Xander sang softly in her ear.

“How did you know? I totally forgot. I wasn't even paying attention to the day.”

“Kent told me. And told me about your favorite cake.” Row held the cake in front of her. “I just happened to have Gale's recipe. You blow out the candles so we can dig in to this while we watch the show.”

The show? She didn't have time to ask. Her candles were burning. She closed her eyes to search for her wish. And found it. She sucked in a breath, opened her eyes, and blew out twenty-six candles.
I wish happiness for all of us.

A pop in the sky startled her.

“The fireworks are starting.” Xander pointed overhead. “It's Sundew's celebration. We just happen to have the best view.” A flash of white burst in a perfect circle above them, tendrils of color fading as they fell. Another flash. Pink and green exploded across the sky.

Isleen turned in his arms, needing to do more than just feel him around her, needing to see him. The hard angles of his face were lit blue from the rockets exploding. His gaze on her was full of… Words were too small to describe the look of love he bestowed on her.

Her heart practically leaped out of her chest to be with his.

She placed her hand on his scarred cheek. “I love you. I love your family. And I love the life we're going to have.” She tugged him down to her mouth as a kaleidoscope of color and a future of happiness burst over them.

Order Abbie Roads's next book
in the Fatal Dreams series

Hunt the Dawn

On sale December 2016