Darkness Fair (The Dark Cycle Book 2)

by Marks, Rachel A.

  Then the women do something odd: they take a stone bowl of seeds and crush them with a pestle, add a little wine from a skin, and after stirring it with a small brush, they begin painting the orange-bronze concoction onto my body in circles and lines. They continue weeping as they work, covering my whole chest in patterns.

  Because I was vital. I was loved. But I have lost what was mine so long ago—

  A sudden burst of power sparks from the dead man and I jerk back to the present. Heat surges through me, as if the power was my own. I clutch my hand to the mark on my chest, feeling like it’s been burned, even though there’s no real pain. My whole arm, up and down my mark, is lit with a dull pulse of light and then it fades away, back into my skin.

  “What was that?” I ask, breathless. The smells of the vision, of hopelessness and myrrh and the earthy paint, linger and mingle with the dust of my actual surroundings.

  “Your markings, Aidan, they flared to life.” Hanna’s voice is full of anxiety. “Did it hurt you?”

  I shake my head. “No. Not really. I just saw a vision.” I flex my arm, bending it at the elbow. My muscles still feel a little like stone. “There were women in mourning. They were preparing my body—this man’s body—in a cave; the tomb, I guess.”

  “You became the man?” she asks. “Could you tell who he was?”

  I shake my head. “I could feel things, some personal emotions, but they were too abstract. I would need to touch it for longer, I guess, to see more details.” Not something I want to do—be a dead man. Once was enough.

  She seems to consider whether or not to push me further, the tangled smell of internal conflict filtering into the air. “Eric said this was to be kept hidden. He said it would help me someday to understand why he was here, why he was watching over you, and why he and I couldn’t be . . . distracted.”

  It makes sense that this third object would be connected to me somehow if the other objects were: the amulets, the alabaster box with the feather inside. And now an ossuary filled with ancient bones. Bones of a man who lived to a ripe old age. He was full of sorrow, a weight heavy on his shoulders, even in death. It was such a clear feeling. Familiar, actually. The weight of destiny.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, seeing her need for answers. “I could try again later. Maybe I’ll see more.” Or I could just tell her Eric’s an angel and he’s supposed to be guarding me. Which must be why he can’t be with her—the whole angel/human thing.

  Hanna lifts her chin in resignation. “Thank you.” She straightens her shoulders and touches my arm again, like she’s soothing me, even though it’s obvious she’s the one who needs the comfort. “Let’s get the video, and maybe it’ll show you more. And I’ll find those scrolls for Sid so you kids can be on your way.” Her sad smile returns as she walks away, leaving me to stare at the bone box.

  It connected to my power, somehow. It connected to me. Could it have answers about Ava’s father? Or help me protect my sister from him? Could it explain why I’m here to begin with? So many questions. Answers are practically extinct these days. But I don’t see why that should keep me from searching for them.

  I look higher on the shelf and reach out to touch the blue velvet wrapped around one of the Torahs, whispering the blessing, “Baruch ata Adonai, elohainu king of the universe, asher ba-char banu mikal ha-ah-mim v’natan lanu et torahto. Blessed are you Lord, giver of the Torah,” wishing I could touch the mind of God instead, then maybe I could understand what all this mess of emotions and pain is leading us to.

  SIXTEEN

  Rebecca

  I’m pretty sure I’ve completely reorganized this ragtag business they have here. Being a nervous cleaner can be both a blessing and a curse. Things get clean, but only when I’m anxious or panicked. When I’m content or happy, my stuff’s strewn all over the place.

  Over the last several hours I’ve thrown myself into straightening this joke of an office, twice reorganizing the stack of pending files, creating a system for the basket of messages, rearranging the corkboard. And the paperclips. Oh, and I totally changed the filing so it’s now by alphabet, category, and date.

  That crazy system should teach them not to stick me with the crap jobs.

  Holly has been texting me from up in her room every half hour or so with a smiley face. Sid peeked in on me once, but he didn’t say much. The guy’s looking a little pale, his shiny bald head extra shiny. I almost suggested a good vitamin D supplement since he’s obviously not making it out into the sun much.

  After I’m done with all the paperwork stuff I sit down at the newly tidied message table, take up a pen, and slide one of the squares of sticky notes in front of me to write on, then press “Play” on the ancient machine. It clicks and starts humming as the gears turn. The messages are scratchy and blurry—if sound can be blurry, old-timey tape decks have that sound quality: blurry.

  The first message is a guy complaining about his neighbor’s backyard marijuana habit and how it’s affecting his dogs, as if LA Paranormal is a sort of PI/neighborhood watch for people who don’t know how to talk to other adults. I write on the note: Grumpy guy with grumpy dogs and herbal issues. No spooky stuff. Then I jot down his name and return number, which is missing two digits. I don’t rewind to check, because his voice is annoying and I’m already bugged that I’m doing these menial tasks at all.

  The next message is from a woman for a job LA Paranormal seems to already be working on, and the third and fourth messages are from her, too. She’s in a bit of a rush by the sound of it. I write down: Spazzy lady with something dead in her attic and scratches on body issues. She’s not happy.

  There are three more messages, all pretty silly, one with a toothbrush as the central complaint. Once the machine clicks to a stop, I press “Rewind” and listen to the spinning reels whir. I doodle flowers on the edge of the message tablet until a loud click sounds and the “Rewind” button pops back up.

  I slide the papers away and then pause, my eyes falling on my flowery design.

  Only, it’s not flowers.

  I frown at the one, two, three skulls connected by vines. A dagger in each hollow eye.

  Great. Another drawing of skulls—that has to mean something. And skulls aren’t usually a sign of rainbows ahead.

  I still haven’t given Aidan the drawing that came to me the other night. I don’t even want to talk to him about it anymore. I don’t want to talk to him about anything. I’m so crushed, so mortified—like, killmenow. I didn’t sleep at all last night—Holly’s midnight recitations of therapeutic mind techniques didn’t help. And then I got a nice jolt of ick when I felt Aidan and Kara’s kiss this morning. Since then, I’ve planned to leave this place about a hundred times, but when I start packing, I get jittery and panicked, like I’m scared to leave the house, scared to leave Aidan’s side. It’s ridiculous and childish. And extremely annoying.

  It’s my fault for lying to myself. I knew he cared about Kara in a way he doesn’t care about me. But I pretended it didn’t matter. And then I got a nice big shock when he told me Kara’s changed him, connected to him. It felt like my head had been plunged into a bucket of ice water.

  I just need to face facts. I’m officially the other girl. It doesn’t matter how I feel inside, or how I know I’m connected to Aidan. He doesn’t feel it, not in the same way.

  My phone pings and I look down to see the fifth happy face of the day from Holly. I sigh and wander to the entryway of the house, leaning on the railing of the staircase. Screams and the sounds of men fighting come from the living room. I lean forward and see the large, greasy boy, Finger, staring intently at the TV, thumbs flying on an Xbox controller.

  He’s such an oddity. I’ve never heard him speak, or even acknowledge my presence at all. He just sits for hours on end, engrossed in his violent video world. I wonder who he is, or why he’s here. It seems like he’s just a fixture, for the most part, like a lamp. A wave of pity washes over me as I watch him. I make up a story in my head about how h
e ended up here, a story about his parents—immigrants, maybe—who left him here alone, thinking he’d have a better life. Which I suppose he—

  Finger looks up, staring right at me, making my brain freeze. He straightens his back and lowers the controller. He’s looking at me, he’s looking at me, screams in my head, like it’s a big deal, like I’m supposed to do something, but I have no idea what.

  And then he smiles. Not a small smirk or a tilt of the lips, but a grin that could be considered cheesy.

  “Hi,” I say, with a half wave. Because I don’t know how else to respond. He’s looking at me like I just made his day. But I have no clue why he’s so thrilled.

  He blinks once, twice, and then I feel a slight twinge behind my eyes, and my chest fills with warmth. It feels like . . . like someone’s giving me a hug. Did he just do that somehow?

  Ugh, this house.

  Finger’s eyes trail back to the TV and his thumbs start moving over the controller just as the back door opens. Jax and Kara walk in; I feel like I’ve been caught doing something secret, but I have no clue why. Aidan isn’t with them. I back up and attempt to hide behind the bannister.

  But Jax spots me me. “Hey, Red. You do all my work for me?”

  I glare at him.

  Kara walks past us without a word. She goes into the office as Jax stands there, looking me over like I’m a page in a magazine.

  Before I can tell him off, a shout comes from the office. “WHAT IN THE HELL?!”

  I cringe.

  Jax’s eyes light up with glee.

  Kara storms out of the office and glares at me. “Where the fuck are all my notes on the hospital shoot?”

  Uh-oh. “I just . . . I was organizing and . . .” Crap, I hope I can find the papers she’s talking about. Everything was such a mess! And I was so angry when I was straightening it all up.

  “Lay off the newbie, Kara,” Jax says.

  Kara growls in frustration and disappears back into the office. I follow her into the room, cautiously. Kara’s scary when she’s mad. Her presence is overwhelming.

  “I can find it,” I say, sounding way more confident than I feel.

  “You shouldn’t have messed with any of it,” she says, shoving papers aside and undoing half my work in two seconds. “You just come in here and touch shit and act like you own the place.”

  I lean down and start looking through some of the stuff that’s landed on the floor. “There were some that said hospital—”

  She yanks a paper out of my hand. “This is none of your business. You have no idea what’s going on. You don’t belong here at all!”

  “I’m sorry, Kara, I didn’t—”

  “Don’t you dare be nice to me. I know why you’re here, sneaky little bitch.”

  I stare at her. “Excuse me?”

  She stops shuffling through the papers and turns to me, moving closer. “I know what you’ve been up to. Texting him, mixing up his head. I won’t let you hurt him or make him feel guilty. He doesn’t need you anymore.”

  “What? You’re crazy.” Yes, I texted him, but I wasn’t pushing, not really. And it was pretty obvious to me yesterday that he’s not interested in me. At all.

  She smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. It’s super creepy. “I’ve figured you out and I’ve felt your energy. I know how you can pull his strings. I know what you think you are to him, but you’re wrong. I’m here now, and I won’t let you screw with him.”

  My mind spins. “What in the heck are you even talking about?!” I so do not pull Aidan’s strings. I can barely get him to answer my phone calls.

  Kara just looks at me, like she’s waiting. But whatever she’s waiting for, it isn’t coming, so she adds, “Just realize, when the time comes, you’ll have me to deal with. I won’t let you take him from us.” She tosses the papers in her hand back onto the table and walks out of the room, leaving me with the oddest feeling. Like the world just turned topsy-turvy. And instead of being the heroine of my story, I’m suddenly the villain.

  SEVENTEEN

  Aidan

  After we drop off Kara and Jax at home, Connor and I argue about where to go first, Mrs. O’Linn’s or the Fosters’. The original plan was to hit the Fosters’ before heading over to my great-grandmother’s, but I’m dizzy and drained now—probably from reading the bone box. I’m also confused. Because as we were leaving the club Kara got quiet and insisted she be dropped off at the house instead of coming with us. And I know it was because on the way out of the vault I told her what I’d seen on her soul. She started acting weird right after that. Then when I asked what was wrong, she blew me off, claiming she was tired and wanted to lie down. Which all guys know is girl-speak for, I don’t want to talk about it.

  I just need to get the protections up around the beach cave as soon as possible, so I’ll have at least one thing checked off my list.

  But Connor won the argument, obviously. He’s driving. So, it’s the Fosters’ first.

  After a twenty-five-minute drive, he pulls the Camaro up to a Granada Hills home.

  “We’ll just check in quick,” Connor says. “I swear, we’ll get to your grandma’s place before sundown.”

  “Are you going to be solid on the rune stuff without Kara?” I ask. As much as I want to keep her in my sight right now, I’m glad she’s not with us just in case something goes wrong—her weakness could get her hurt.

  “I’ll be fine,” Connor says, sounding as distracted as I am. “The rune book Hanna gave me is exactly what I needed to fill in the gap, I think. And you’ve got the spirit pouches to bury, since Kara did those last night. All that, plus some oils and salt, and we’ll be good to go.”

  Let’s hope it’s really that easy.

  The Fosters live in an old neighborhood, first established in the forties. Tall purple plum and sweetgum trees line the road, casting their lacy shadows over the various yards. The simple, single-story houses are on good-sized lots. Newspapers sit on the porches and midpriced cars are parked in the driveways. Dogs bark in the distance and birds chatter in the branches above. It’s Leave It To Beaver land.

  Connor gets out of the Camaro and walks up to the house; it even says The Fosters on a plaque beside the front door. I hang back and try to prepare myself for the inevitable slime ahead. If this really is a dybbuk hidden away in the attic, the job won’t feel like collecting butterflies.

  Connor knocks. I stay behind him as a woman opens the door, a screaming baby on her hip. Her hair is tied up in a tangle of brown curls and there’s a frazzled look in her eyes, a smear of something green on her pink shirt, and what looks like flour on her cheek and forehead.

  “Thank God, you’re here!” she says. The baby’s wail grows louder and the woman looks like she’s about to burst into tears, too.

  It’s super nerve-wracking. If I had to listen to that every day, I’d definitely cry.

  She walks away from the door and starts talking like we’re just supposed to follow. I lock up my inner walls as tightly as I can to block out any negative energy or spirits. Then I take a deep breath and step into the house.

  As soon as I pass the threshold, something presses against my senses, like it’s trying to break through. But whatever it is, I’m able to block it out. I smell the rot, like something died, but I’m not going to try and sift through anything I sense yet, so I ignore it. I focus on the physical surroundings instead of the spiritual ones and listen to what the woman is saying, about not sleeping, about the smell of something dead, how her husband searched the attic and now things have gotten worse.

  “Then, just before you got here, this happened!” She leads us into the kitchen. All the cupboards are open and shattered dishes cover the tile floor. She shakes her head, looking at the mess. “I don’t even know how to start picking it all up. I can’t put Rosa down or she cries so hard she turns purple. She was never like this before. Ever. Not until the mess in the attic started. The other kids have been staying at the neighbor’s house for two days, since th
e smell is so bad. My oldest son was throwing up, saying his chest hurt. I was so scared that it was making him sick.” She pauses, like she’s getting up the nerve for something, then she whispers, “And last night . . . these came.” She lifts her shirt a little on the side, revealing three long, puffy red scratches. “I don’t know what to think anymore.” The misery in her voice, in her energy, is palpable.

  Connor studies the marks for a second, seemingly unfazed. He’s got Sid’s unaffected look down pat.

  But we both know what those scratches mean. At least, I would hope Connor knows. If whatever is in this house scratched her, it’s claimed her, and might be getting ready to possess her. Usually that would mean a demon, but with the locks and the carving of dybbuk on the attic door, I’m still wondering about a wraith. In rare cases, a wraith can possess a human host. It would have to be a pretty powerful one, though.

  I look around the house more closely, searching for any religious symbols, something that could be agitating the spirit. There’s a painting of the pope at the entrance to the hallway to my left. The glass is cracked. “You’re Catholic?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “I had to take down my crucifixes because I woke up yesterday to them all hung upside down.” She shivers. “It was so disturbing, I just put them in a drawer.” She points at the desk in the corner of what might have once been a dining room but is now an office.

  Connor and I share a look, and I’m fairly sure we’re both thinking the same thing: whatever was in the attic is now trying to take over the house.

  He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the audio app, then clicks “Record” before saying, “You mentioned the trouble was mostly in the attic.”

  “Not anymore,” she says. “After my husband messed around up there, everything just got worse.”

  “Did he open the door in the attic? The smaller one that was locked?” I ask.

  She gives me a questioning look. “Do you mean that cupboard? I don’t know. I couldn’t get it open when I tried, so I gave up.”