Into Darkness (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Magnus watched her go, muttering to himself, “How the hell Xander puts up with it, I’ll never know.” He raked a hand through his hair again, something he seemed to do when disturbed—which Lu guessed meant he did it frequently. “You should be resting. I’ll bring you something to eat, clean clothes.”

  “No.”

  Magnus turned to her, startled at the bluntness of her answer, and, judging by his glower, none too pleased another female was being disagreeable.

  “Morgan said everyone wanted to meet me. And I want to meet them.” She paused a beat. “Besides, I’m not hungry. And I can rest when I’m dead.”

  She thought she saw it again, that fleeting amusement. But he was apparently so good at quashing anything except growls and scowls she really wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. His face was wiped swiftly clean of any traces of emotion.

  “All right,” he said, “come with—”

  “First explain something to me.”

  He’d been turning away, but snapped back in place as if pulled, his lips thinned to a line.

  That muscle in his jaw is certainly getting a workout.

  “Morgan just told me something—several things actually—I’m finding a little hard to process.”

  “Such as?”

  “Mainly that I might have been the cause of the Flash. That can’t really be true . . . can it?”

  He considered her in stony silence for what seemed an eternity. Finally he said, “We can discuss this later. Right now I have to—”

  “Was I?” Lu stepped closer, her voice rising. She took another step toward him when he didn’t answer, and he twitched, as if tensing to run.

  “Was I somehow the cause?” She’d emphasized each word, moving even closer, until finally they were almost nose to nose. She had to look up to meet his eyes. This close they were as warm and rich as melted chocolate, though their expression fluctuated between anger, alarm, and a strange, raw ambivalence.

  I’m not going to light you up, she wanted to say, seeing how uncomfortable he was. Instead she repeated herself when he refused to answer.

  “Magnus. Tell me. Was I somehow the cause of the Flash?”

  He swallowed. His gaze drifted to her mouth, then he blinked and turned his head, staring off into the darkness. He said, “There’s no somehow about it.”

  No. Oh God, no.

  The room seemed to tilt, sliding sideways from center, a slipping spin that had her stomach flip-flopping like a dying fish. She heard Magnus say her name, saw him reach for her with the alarm in his eyes turning now to wide-eyed panic as the whole world came crashing down over her ears.

  Wars. Death. The destruction of an entire planet.

  Because of me.

  A part of her dove into full-blown, indignant, there’s-no-way-in-hell denial. But another part—a darker part, the part where the animal lurked—believed it. Fully and immediately, she grasped the thing that had always made her father so afraid.

  She wasn’t just a monster.

  She was pure evil.

  Magnus caught her as she stumbled back, sagging against the wall as if her knees wouldn’t support her. Her eyes were still open, half-lidded and blank, so he knew she hadn’t fainted, at least not in the traditional sense of the word. She’d simply stopped. Stopped breathing, stopped responding, stopped looking at him as if he was holding a life preserver and she was in the middle of the ocean, drowning.

  He’d just taken that life preserver and flung it off the other side of the boat, right into the hungry maw of a shark.

  “Hope! Hope, talk to me!”

  The pulse in her neck fluttered wildly. Her face had blanched ghostly white. She blinked once, then put her hands over her face and moaned. It was a low, wretched sound he recognized as one of a creature whose soul was in cinders.

  He’d made that sound himself, too often to count.

  His hands were gripped around her arms before he could think, and he eased her to the floor. “Just breathe. Just sit here a minute and breathe, heleti.”

  She’d begun to tremble violently. She put her head on her knees, hiding. She said to herself, “The Romanian word for light,” then laughed a low, ugly laugh, a sound utterly devoid of humor. It might have been the most hopeless noise he’d ever heard. She lifted her head and stared at him with eyes that were huge and dark, still wearing those brown contacts that to his keen vision were so obviously fake.

  “My name isn’t Hope. It’s Lumina. Which is the Romanian word for light. Because I caused the Flash.” That ugly laugh made another appearance, now accompanied by a manic glint in her eyes. “My parents had a really depraved sense of humor.”

  “No,” he said softly, kneeling in front of her and still holding her arms, fighting the rise of panic and the urge to flee that always accompanied being too close. He pushed both emotions away and concentrated on her. On what she needed from him right now.

  “No,” he said again. “Your name isn’t Lumina. You aren’t in the human world anymore; you don’t have to keep your human name. You’ll never again have to hide who you are, or what you can do. You’ll never again have to pretend. And you’ll never again be alone, do you understand? We’re your family here—”

  “I had a family,” she said vehemently, her trembling growing worse. “They’re dead.”

  “They weren’t your Blood—”

  “It’s not about blood!” she cried, stiffening. “Family is who takes care of you, who sacrifices for you, who would take a bullet to keep you safe!” Her face contorted; she was trying not to cry. “There’re more powerful things than blood!”

  Magnus gazed at her, feeling all her rage and pain and confusion, wishing he had the right words to help her. Wishing he wasn’t so broken, so he could simply take her in his arms and comfort her, one lost soul to another, no questions asked. But he knew from hard experience that wishful thinking was nothing but a waste of time. He was broken, and had little to offer except the truth. So he simply spoke it.

  “There is nothing in this world more powerful than your Blood. Not a single thing.”

  She just stared at him, lips pinched to a don’t-cry grimace, eyes fierce with unshed tears. Even like this, in dirty clothes with uncombed hair, with an unwashed face and her features twisted in anguish, he thought she was the most painfully exquisite thing he’d ever seen. Honor had the same face, the same body, but it was Hope’s spirit that elevated her from merely pretty to perfect. That—literal—fire she possessed lit her up from the inside so she glowed.

  “Tell me.”

  Her voice was ragged, the emotion behind it raw. Magnus inhaled a slow breath, debating. He quickly decided that not only did she deserve to know, but in her shoes, he’d demand it, too.

  “You are Hope Catherine Moore McLoughlin. Your grandfather, Charles, known to humans as the Earl of Normanton, was, in his time, the most powerful our kind had ever seen. He was called the Skinwalker, able to Shift into any form, any element, any thing or even idea. I understand he particularly enjoyed being a crow, a butterfly, and a cold wind.” His voice turned wry. “Maybe that’s where Honor gets it.”

  Hope’s eyes widened. Her lips parted. She stared at him, rapt.

  “Your mother inherited her father’s abilities. Though her own mother was human, Jenna—”

  “My mother’s name was Jenna?” Hope said, her voice small. “And she was . . . half-human?”

  He nodded. “She was even more powerful than her father. And you and Honor are even more powerful than her.”

  She processed that a moment. “Is her grave here, in Wales? Is she buried nearby?”

  She leaned forward. The scent of her hair and skin filled his nose, and his mouth went dry. His heart contracted with a horrible, acute ache, and he had to resist the urge to jump up and run or smash his mouth against hers and kiss her.

  For God’s
sake, keep it together, Magnus!

  He dropped his hands from her arms, tucked them under his armpits, and rocked back onto his heels. He said gruffly, “No. She’s not buried nearby.”

  Her face fell. She sagged back. “Oh.”

  “No, I mean, she’s not buried at all.”

  She blinked at him, confused, and he realized he was making a mess of the whole explanation. He carefully chose his next words.

  “She’s not buried because she’s not dead, Hope. Your mother is very much alive.”

  TEN

  Morgan made her way through the dim tunnels quickly, not needing light to navigate the corridors she knew so well. Like all her kind she could see in the dark, but even if she hadn’t been able to, she’d lived in this chilled palace of ancient stone and flowing water for over two decades. She could navigate the twists and turns with her eyes closed.

  In spite of the damp that made her bones ache and the lack of natural light, she loved it. The caves of Ogof Ffynnon Ddu, over three hundred meters deep and sixty kilometers long, featured roaring rivers, thundering waterfalls, and vast columns of glistening limestone, formed as stalactites and stalagmites grew together after millennia of longing from above and below. Cave shrimp, pale as bone, scurried in the rocky beds of pools, fish swam aplenty in the underground lakes, and an entire ecosystem of subterranean plant and animal life abounded on which to feed.

  And there was music. Hauntingly beautiful, the song of water—running and dripping and flowing all around—underscored all her days and nights with the loveliest melodies. For Morgan, a woman once blessed with considerable wealth and cursed with a fetish for beautiful things, this music was the only thing of true beauty left in her life.

  Well, that and her husband, Xander. She smiled, wondering how long it would take to turn his growls of anger when he heard she’d been smart to the Alpha—again—into purrs of contentment when she snuggled against him and said she was ever-so-sorry.

  Ten seconds. Tops.

  One of the many things she adored about her husband was his inability to stay mad at her. You’d think a man who’d once been the tribe’s most fearsome assassin, the famed “Wrath of God” himself, would have a little more fortitude in the face of a few feminine wiles. But Xander’s fury melted like snow in sunlight with nothing more than a kiss from his wife.

  And because of her inability to stay out of trouble, Morgan spent a lot of time kissing him.

  That wasn’t the only reason, of course. Xander was an excellent kisser.

  “Knew I’d find you here, kiddo,” she called as she stepped through an egg-shaped opening in the stone, cradling Hope’s frosted collar in her cupped hands.

  In stark contrast to the rest of the caves, this room was illuminated by a soft, ambient light that almost perfectly mimicked the warm glow of a summer sunrise. It seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, but its source was the young man seated behind a sturdy wooden bench strewn with every kind of electronic device in various states of assembly. He was staring through a lighted magnifying glass, and didn’t look up when she came in.

  “Auntie M,” he said with exaggerated patience, “I am no longer a ‘kiddo.’ I am a grown man. Allow me to demonstrate.” Still without looking up, he flexed both arms, causing a pair of spectacular biceps to bulge from his short-sleeved shirt.

  “Beckett, really,” she sighed. “Muscles might impress your little groupies, but I happen to know from personal experience there’s much more to being a man than a pair of big guns.”

  Beckett looked up from his work and grinned. The light in the room grew brighter. “Vast personal experience, no doubt.”

  Morgan attempted an outraged expression, but found herself grinning back at him instead. “Cheeky bastard! Don’t let your uncle hear you talking to me like that, or he might just tear off one of those big arms of yours and beat you over the head with it.”

  “What?”

  He pretended innocence, and Morgan could see exactly why all the young girls—and most of the older ones, too—swooned in his presence. He had long, curling lashes, eyes the exact color of new grass, adorable dimples, perfect teeth, and golden, always-tousled hair. Along with a quarterback’s body and a pirate’s swagger, he was utterly charming. And bright. And one of her favorite people in the world.

  Beckett said, “I’m sure the poor man knew he was marrying a man-eater—”

  “Goddess, I think you meant to say.” She rounded the desk and presented her cheek for a kiss. He obliged, and she gave him an arch look. “And I’ll have you know I was quite the virgin when I married your uncle. Completely untouched!”

  He grimaced. “Way too much info. And, if I know you at all, a complete fabrication.”

  “Well, if you’re going to insult me I won’t give you your present,” she said lightly, perching on the edge of his desk.

  The room was cramped with makeshift tables covered in a haphazard sprawl of wires, the innards of computers, broken monitors, boxes of mobile phones, data pads both working and not, and a jumble of other unidentifiable electronic flotsam. One wall was covered in old maps, the opposite wall displayed posters of World War II bombers, muscle cars, Amelia Earhart, and the odd pinup girl. Then there was the clock collection. Stacked in old milk crates in a teetering column that nearly reached the ceiling, hundreds of old clocks ticked out the minutes and hours, all of them set to pre-IF, global standard time for New York City, which Beckett insisted was the center of the civilized world before the Flash.

  His obsession with pre-Flash memorabilia was eclipsed only by his fascination with electronics from all eras and countries. Some of it he’d scavenged from abandoned homes and offices in the surrounding countryside, and some if it came from much farther afield; when Magnus went hunting, he never failed to bring something back for Beckett’s collection, pilfered from some lab or locked building.

  Magnus’s Gifts rendered things like locks, and even walls, obsolete.

  “Present?” Beckett perked up like a dog when it hears the word treat, his eyes alight. “What present? What is it?”

  Another reason to love him: He was easy to please. Morgan stretched out her arms, opened her palms, and said, “You’re welcome.”

  He went still, eyes widening. “No way.”

  Morgan laughed. “Way. Take it, will you, it’s freezing my hands!”

  “On the glass, on the glass!” He swatted aside the tiny silver chip beneath the lighted microscope as if it were a fly. “Here!”

  Morgan gingerly deposited the heavy chunks onto the lighted glass base of the microscope and sat back, watching Beckett with an affectionate smile. He leaned down to peer at it. Beneath the glass, the light ticked up several degrees, though he hadn’t touched any dial or switch.

  “Whoa,” he breathed, “this is totally new technology. There are all kinds of code embedded in the links, and is that . . . what is that?” A bubble of light the size of Morgan’s wedding band hovered over a jagged spot on the edge of a broken link, illuming the blackened metal from both sides. He made an interested grunt. “I’ve never seen that on any of the other collars.”

  “No doubt they’re improving all the time,” muttered Morgan sourly.

  Careful not to touch it with his fingers, Beckett used a pair of wooden tongs to rotate the broken collar. The bubble of light followed the move. “Why is it frozen?” He tapped a link. “Honor?”

  “Mmm.” Beckett’s Gift fascinated her no end. What must it be like to be a power source all your own? She thought she’d probably use it to create an age-defying diffuse glow around her face, then wondered absently if she could bribe him to follow her around, doing just that. She touched her cheek, considering.

  “So Magnus is back.”

  “That he is.”

  Beckett looked up expectantly, as if just realizing what that meant. “And?”

  A swell of emotion
rose inside her, huge and bright, and for a moment she couldn’t answer. Half her lifetime of searching, and finally, finally they’d succeeded. Morgan still didn’t quite believe it was real.

  She said simply, “Mission accomplished.”

  A new light appeared in his eyes. A new tension sharpened his face. “I want to meet her.”

  Morgan recognized that look. It was a version of the expression Magnus got whenever Hope’s name was mentioned, from the time he’d been a much younger man, with an unscathed face and a soul untouched by darkness. He’d never even met Hope, so it made no sense whatsoever, but each and every time someone said her name, Magnus’s eyes would grow darker and hotter, his face flush with something that looked—before he could stifle it—suspiciously like longing.

  And here was Beckett doing the same thing. Morgan sincerely hoped every unmated male in this colony wasn’t going to start fighting over her goddaughter. Then again, she thought, brightening, we haven’t had a proper suitor challenge around here in ages.

  God knew Honor wasn’t going to be helping that situation along anytime soon, prickly ice queen that she was.

  “You will. Just not right now; she’s on her way to meet the Assembly. Which is where I should be going, incidentally.” She stood. “I’ll see you—”

  He stood also, abandoning the collar. “On her way to the Assembly? How long has she been here?”

  “Hours, ducky. She’s been asleep—”

  “And I’m just now finding out? Why doesn’t anybody tell me anything around here?” He seemed really aggravated. He stared at her, awaiting an answer.

  “Because, dear boy, you spend most of your time hunched over this table, fiddling with your computers and sending encoded messages all over the world—”

  “Planning is a necessity when you’re trying to overthrow a totalitarian regime—”

  “—which doesn’t allow for much in the way of conversation. Your groupies might love you, but they’ve learned by now not to come knocking when the lab lights are on. Hence your lack of knowledge on the comings and goings of new—and quite lovely, I might add—persons.”