Race the Darkness

by Abbie Roads

  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.

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  in the Fatal Dreams series

  Hunt the Dawn

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  Hunt the Dawn

  Minds of Madness and Murder. The glossy poster advertising today’s seminar was taped to the closed auditorium door. Someone had drawn tears of blood dripping from each of the M’s.

  Lathaniel Montgomery’s gut gnawed at his backbone, but not because of the poster or the bloody tears.

  Holy Jesus. How was he going to manage being in an audience surrounded by hundreds of people, with all their smells, all their memories?

  Gill touched his arm like he always did to get Lathan’s attention. “Going in?”

  “Yeah.” But Lathan’s feet had grown roots into the floor. He hated how nothing in his life was normal. He hated the fucked-up sequence of genetic code that had enlarged the olfactory regions of his brain. He hated that he smelled everything. And he especially hated the ability to smell the energy imprints of people’s memories. Scent memories. Memories that could overwhelm him and annihilate his reality.

  Gill stepped up close and examined Lath
an’s left eye—the eye the SMs always invaded first, the eye that would roll around independently of the other one, making him appear in need of an exorcism.

  “Quit with the eye exam. I’m all right.” For now. Concentration kept the SMs out of his mind. Vigilance kept them under control.

  “Your seat is directly in front of the podium. You won’t have any trouble reading Dr. Jonah’s lips. After the presentation, introduce yourself. He’ll recognize your name.” Gill gave him the don’t-screw-this-up look. “Convince him about the Strategist.”

  The Strategist.

  Lathan’s freakish ability had generated leads for nearly every cold case he worked. Except for the Strategist’s.

  “Explain how each person has a scent signature. Explain that you smell the same signature on thirty-eight unsolved murders. Explain that the FBI won’t do anything unless he confirms there is a connection among the kills.”

  “Save the lecture. This whole fucking thing was my dumbass idea.” Could he maintain control of the SMs long enough to make it to the end of the presentation? “If I—”

  “There is no if. You’re not going to lose control.” Gill had read his worries as easily as Lathan read his friend’s lips. “Maybe I should go in with you.”

  “I don’t need you holding my hand.” Lathan showed him a raised middle finger—a salute they always used in jest, forced a smile of bravado across his lips, and then pushed through the doors before he made like a chickenshit and bolted from the building. Barely inside, the SMs hit. Millions of memories warred for his attention, tugged at the vision in his left eye. He sucked air through his mouth to diminish the intensity, to maintain control.

  Never in his life had he been around so many people at once and been coherent. Maybe he should leave.

  No.

  He clenched his fists. Knuckles popped, grounding him, giving him an edge over the SMs.

  He strode down the steps toward the front of the room. Thank whoever-was-in-charge the presentation hadn’t started yet.

  An empty seat in the front row had a pink piece of paper taped to it: RESERVED. Lathan would’ve preferred the anonymity of the back row, but he couldn’t see Dr. Jonah’s face from that far away. He ripped off the sheet and sat in the cramped space.

  His shoulders were wider than the damned chair. His arms overflowed the boundary of his seat. The woman on his left angled away from him, the cinnamon scent of her irritation infusing the air. Typical reaction to his size. And with the tattoo on his cheek, she probably assumed he’d served a sentence in the slammer.

  The woman on his right reeked. But it wasn’t her fault. The rot of her body dying was a stench he recognized, along with the sharp chemical tang of the drugs that were killing her so she could live. Cancer and chemo. Her emaciated features evidenced the battle she fought. And yet, she was here. At this presentation. She was a warrior. And he was a fucking pussy for bellyaching about the SMs.

  His ears picked up a faint snapping noise. Clapping. Everyone applauded enthusiastically.

  Dr. Jonah walked to the podium. His clothes were baggy and ill fitting, his face wrinkled, his head topped with a mass of fluttery gray hair. Even though he looked like he’d just awakened from sleeping under an overpass, he possessed the look of frazzled genius. The look of someone whose work mattered more than living life. The look of the nation’s most respected profiler.

  A door on Lathan’s right opened. A young woman lugged a folding chair across the room. Toward him.

  He held his breath.

  No. She couldn’t be there for him. No one here knew him. Knew about him. Except Gill. And Gill wouldn’t—

  She opened her chair and sat facing him. With an overly enthusiastic smile that showed the silver in her back molars, she started to sign.

  He looked away. A long bitter whoosh of air escaped his lips.

  He didn’t need an interpreter.

  The combination of what little hearing he still possessed, speech reading, and his nose worked just fucking fine. Most of the time.

  Anger burned a gaping hole through his concentration. The interpreter’s memories invaded the vision of his left eye.

  She swiped a quick stroke of mascara across her lashes and examined the effect up close in the bathroom mirror. Good enough. Getting the day over with, getting back to Cara mattered more than her makeup.

  “I should go.” Her voice lacked as much conviction as her will.

  “Baby, come on back to bed, just for a little while.” Cara threw back the covers. She’d strapped Big Johnnie around her waist. He pointed proudly perpendicular.

  She glanced at the bedside clock. She was going to be late. It’d be worth it.

  The SM continued to play in front of his left eye. His right eye focused on Dr. Jonah. Lathan pressed his left eye closed with his fingers to block out the images, but they projected on the back of his eyelid. Hard to focus on reality. Disorienting as hell. Don’t lose control.

  His right-eyed vision of reality wavered. Almost like a double exposure, he was able to see the stage, see Dr. Jonah, but superimposed over it was the interpreter and her sex bunny having a girls-only party.

  Lathan’s heart punched against his chest wall, pumping so hard he felt the echo of it in his damaged ears. Fuck. The SMs were about to stage a coup.

  “I’m out of here.” Did he shout the words, whisper them, or even speak them at all? Didn’t know. Didn’t care.

  He sprinted out of his seat and up the auditorium stairs, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes watching him.

  Gulping giant fish-out-of-water breaths through his mouth, he slammed through the door, burst into the hallway, and then barreled out the exterior door.

  Away from the people, away from the damned interpreter, the SMs vanished. His sight returned to normal. He’d figure out some other way to talk to Dr. Jonah. No way was he taking that kind of risk again.

  The stark fall afternoon held a hint of winter chill, but he didn’t mind. He was always hot, and the temperature suited his mood. He hurried across the lawn to his motorcycle.

  A wisp of scent tickled his nostrils. The fleeting aroma possessed a sickening familiarity that felt out of place for his surroundings. He plugged his nose against the smell, refusing to allow one bit of air to enter his nose until he was on the road.

  Someone grabbed his arm from behind.

  His heart stopped. Adrenaline shot from his brain straight to his fist.

  He swung at the same time he turned. Punch first, ask questions later—his body’s default reaction ever since the attack that cost him his hearing.

  He barely stopped himself from impacting with the guy’s face. Lathan lunged forward a few steps, feigning aggression, expecting the guy to retreat, and he did, tripping over his own feet, almost falling on his ass. Good. That was one way to get someone to realize he took his personal space seriously.

  “Don’t fucking touch me.” From the force of the vibrations in his throat, he had yelled the words. He didn’t care. He forced himself to breathe from his mouth. Didn’t want to look like more of freak than he already did by standing there plugging his nose.

  The guy swallowed and nodded, then swallowed again. “I’m Dr. Jonah’s partner.” The guy’s mouth formed the words in perfect precision. “Dr. Jonah wants…return…presentation.”

  The words you, to, do, new all looked identical when spoken. Conversation with a stranger was a recipe. Mix the bits of sound he heard with the speech he read. Sprinkle in the context of the sentence. And bake with the emotions he smelled.

  Why would Dr. Jonah want him to return to the lecture? Why would Dr. Jonah stop the presentation to tell his partner to come after him? He wouldn’t. Lathan must’ve read the guy’s words wrong. He sure as hell wasn’t going to ask the guy to repeat himself. Every time he did, people spoke in such an exaggerated manner even God wouldn’t be able t
o divine the words leaving their mouths.

  The guy opened his mouth to say more, but scratched at a spot on the side of his nostril, blocking every word from Lathan’s view. His ears only picked up random sounds, nothing that added up to a word. The best way to handle not understanding speech: silence. Anything else ended with people looking at him like he was stupid.

  He sat on his bike and flicked the ignition switch. Underneath him, the engine pulsed; the vibrations traveled through his body. His heart, his breath, the engine all moved in one synergistic rhythm. The closest he ever got to music.

  The guy stood in front of the bike, waving his hands like an amateur cheerleader to get Lathan’s attention.

  He backed the motorcycle from the space.

  The persistent little pecker jogged next to him.

  Lathan kicked his Fat Bob into gear and shot out of the parking lot. He needed to be alone. Alone meant no SMs. He needed to be home. Home meant sanctuary. But every sanctuary was part prison.

  * * *

  “What time you off work, Evan?” Carnivorous anticipation spread across the trucker’s face.

  At some point during every shift at Sweet Buns and Eats truck stop, Evanee Brown was grateful the label maker had run out of ink halfway through her name. The patrons spoke the name on her tag with a familiarity that made her stifle her gag reflex. If they had used her complete name… Well, full-blown barfing would’ve been bad for business.

  She pasted a super-huge smile across her mouth and lied, “Oh, I’m, uh, working a ten so, hmm, whatever time ten hours from now is.” Hopefully, her voice carried the right amount of empty-headed dingbat. Acting stupid earned better tips than being smart.

  “Evan, one of these times I’m passing through I’ll have to show you the inside of my truck. It’s real nice.” He stretched the words real nice into one long taffy-like string.

  She smothered an eye roll.

  The trucker was old enough to have known the original Casanova, yet still made the same X-rated offer every time he came in. She glanced at the clock hanging above the door. Any minute, Shirl—her replacement—should be arriving. Couldn’t happen quick enough.