Burning Darkness

by Jaime Rush

  Westerfield came into view a moment later. “I was hoping to do some experimentation.”

  Eric remembered how he’d been whining that he couldn’t witness or directly participate in the killing of people. All those innocent people.

  Westerfield took a deep breath. Eric tried to quell his fear and anger, but Westerfield’s smile indicated he’d picked up something. His eyes rolled in pleasure. “Rage. Confusion. Bloodlust.” He nodded in the direction he’d taken Sayre, toward the window on the other side of the room. “He’s not nearly as controlled as you.”

  Westerfield walked over to a video camera on a tripod and turned a switch at the wall. Sayre’s grunting noises belched out of a speaker above the window.

  “He’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  Which Eric realized meant he had ten more minutes to break out Fonda’s soul.

  Westerfield regarded him. “Don’t you want to know what I’m going to do? You don’t seem scared, or much of anything.”

  Answering was a lose-lose proposition. Whatever was going to happen, he wanted to get it started. He had to get off this table.

  A loud thump caught both their attention. Sayre was throwing himself at the window, trying to break through. Westerfield moved the table, obviously on wheels, so Eric could watch the show. Was this his intent, to make both of them go crazy and beat themselves to death?

  Sayre had a wild look in his eyes, which was even spookier because the man looked so much like Lucas. Foam spittle dribbled from the corners his mouth and smeared on the glass. He pounded on the window, even smashing his forehead into it.

  “I’d say it’s working splendidly. The glass won’t break.” Westerfield shot Eric a grin. “In case you were worried.”

  Watching Sayre was unnerving; watching the clock ticking away was terrifying.

  Westerfield’s arms were loosely crossed in front of him as he watched, a satisfied look on his face. He turned from the window to him. “Have you ever been to a dogfight? They mistreat the dogs, get them riled up so their rage builds, and as soon as they see the other dog, they attack. Let’s see how a noncrazed man will do against a crazed one. And no fair using your pyro skills. I’ll be blocking them, as usual. Don’t want you to burn the place down, after all.”

  Eric felt a dull thumping in his chest. His blood slowed to a crawl of dread. It reminded him of when Darkwell had thrown Nicholas into Sayre’s room to let him kill him. Even not crazed, Sayre had beat the hell out of him. This, though, Westerfield was doing for friggin’ entertainment. Under normal circumstances Eric would have been happy to nail Sayre’s ass to the floor, and he knew he could have easily done it. But with Sayre psychotic . . . he wasn’t sure.

  “Let’s get on with it then,” he said, tightening his jaw.

  Westerfield chuckled. “I’d heard you were bloodthirsty.”

  Funny thing, he’d probably heard that from Fonda.

  Another minute ticked by, each second an agony. Westerfield checked the camera that was aimed at the window, peering at the small screen. Eric tilted up his chin, trying to catch a glimpse of Fonda. She was barely visible.

  “Now I smell some real fear coming from you.” Westerfield pulled out a ring of keys. “We can do this the civil way, you cooperating, and maybe you’ll have a chance to win.”

  As though the guy would let him live.

  “Or, if you try to escape, you’ll be struck down and face him already in a state of pain, a distinct disadvantage. You don’t impress me as someone who would want to go in disadvantaged.”

  Two minutes left!

  Westerfield unlocked the cuffs. Eric got to his feet, pretending to shake his numbed limbs, but then sprinted toward the jar. She was only a mist now. Pain seared his stomach but he pushed on. His knees went out from under him. He started to fall. Reached out. Almost there. Break it. Have to break the glass. He fell. His hands knocked the jar to the side. It tilted. He fought his body’s instinct to curl up with the pain. The jar fell. Westerfield’s footsteps pounded behind him.

  The jar hit the floor. Rolled. Didn’t break. Pain. Westerfield behind him. Eric reached up—pain . . . must do it—and smashed his hand down on the glass. It broke, cutting the side of his palm. The mist evaporated.

  Westerfield stood above him, hands on his hips. “You think that’s going to save her?”

  Eric had a heart-stopping thought. Where was her body? In the room with Sayre? He got up and ran to the room, pain rocketing through his insides. Sayre threw himself at the glass in front of him, his hands like claws. Nothing human remained in his eyes, not that there was much in there to begin with. Eric searched behind him but didn’t see Fonda. Westerfield put his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll disable him temporarily so you can go in clean.”

  Sayre crumpled, the door opened, and Eric felt a hand push him inside. He had no choice, not when the guy could and would crush his insides. Sayre jumped to his feet, eyes blazing with the bloodlust Westerfield had just mentioned. The door closed.

  Chapter 21

  Fonda felt herself fading by degrees. Every time Westerfield had looked at her, his face warped in the curve of the glass, it gave her the creeps. She faced the opposite direction, where papers were spread out on the desk. Because she needed something to think about, she focused on those papers and pictures. She saw the word Amish several times and a red circle on a map. The pictures she could see, slightly distorted though they were, looked like surveillance photos of Amish people. One was of a woman and two young children.

  They’d infected that Sun Veil cult. Were they looking for other groups to infect? But why? An Amish community, peaceful, not waiting for some UFO to take them away.

  She was trapped there, unable to help. In fact, dying. She didn’t know how long she had, but it wouldn’t be long. Losing that connection to her body felt like a huge void that grew larger and larger.

  Westerfield suddenly stood and walked away. She pushed against the glass wall, trying to knock the jar off the desk. If she could break it, maybe she could escape. Her soul had no power to touch or move things in this jar, though. And she was so weak.

  Movement in the room caught her eye. He was dragging a body inside. Eric! No! She squinted, trying to see more of the man. No, not big enough. Wait. She recognized the close-shaved head: Sayre. She could hardly feel relief when Westerfield left, because he returned dragging another man in. Her heart dropped, even though she didn’t have a heart in a literal sense. Eric. How had he found her? Was he dead? She couldn’t see any blood, but she knew what Westerfield could do.

  The longest minutes of her life crept by as she watched him secure both men. Finally Eric woke, and Westerfield talked to both men, though she couldn’t hear what anyone said. They walked out of her sight as she strained to see what was going on. Suddenly, a man came running toward her, stumbling, and then she saw Eric’s face for a second before his hand knocked the jar down. She fell to the floor, spinning dizzily, and then his hand smashed down on the glass and she was sucked away.

  She woke with a gasp . . . in her body. Pins and needles everywhere, but at least she could feel again. She ran her hands over herself, thank God, back. What about Eric? She looked around. Huh? She was in a bathroom. She ran to the door. The knob turned but the door wouldn’t budge.

  She pushed, and then it abruptly opened. Westerfield stood in front of her, his hand on the knob. “Ah. Just in time to watch your boyfriend die.”

  She heard a thump nearby and jerked her gaze to a window: Eric and Sayre going at it, and the sound of flesh pounding against flesh coming out of a speaker.

  “It’s a death match,” he said.

  He explained about the Essence and how it had made Sayre psychotic. Sayre, not Eric, thank God. Westerfield’s words, though, were lost as she watched the horror inside that room. Sayre, foaming at the mouth, his jaw at a strange angle, throwing himself at Eric, who deflected him, knocking him to the floor. Eric kicked at his face, and Sayre’s eyes bugged in pain.

&
nbsp; She couldn’t breathe. Eric looked up and saw her, his face blanching. The distraction gave Sayre a chance to ram his knee into Eric’s stomach. She felt it, too, gripping her stomach.

  I’m so sorry, Eric. You came for me and now this.

  Eric doubled over, and when she thought he might be done, rammed his head into Sayre’s, sending him backward. Eric had claw marks down his arms, and Sayre scrambled up with those claws ready to slash again. Her hand went to her mouth as she watched, unable to pull her gaze away.

  “Stop them,” she said. “This is mad.”

  But she knew that Westerfield would never stop a show he was enjoying so much. She thought about freezing time, but Eric would be frozen, too, and she couldn’t get him out in any case.

  I love you, I love you, I love you. The words kept rolling through her mind. She wanted to scream them out but didn’t want to distract him again.

  Eric slammed Sayre against the wall and started punching him in the face. Blood spurted everywhere. Sayre kicked Eric in the groin, and she watched his face tighten and body curl inward. He didn’t stop pounding. Sayre tried to kick again, but Eric stepped sideways. Sayre lost his balance and slipped to the floor. He could hardly move to get up.

  Eric didn’t stop pounding on him, his breath heaving as he dropped to his knees and delivered one last blow. He bowed over, head hanging down, catching his breath. After a few seconds he checked Sayre’s pulse and then dropped his arm. He pushed to his feet and faced the window. She gasped at his face, bruised and bloodied.

  Eric looked at Westerfield. “Your little experiment is done. Let her go and I’ll cooperate in whatever way you want.” His gaze shifted to her.

  He was offering himself to save her! She felt the impact of that like a boulder to the chest. She shook her head, but Westerfield was smiling that amused grin again.

  He pressed a button on the speaker. “Very impressive, Aruda. Very impressive. Not only your physical strength, but your sacrificial desire to save your girl. I find that kind of behavior so interesting but very rare. I’ll bet cooperating doesn’t come easy for you, especially when you know death will be at the end. Sayre had an even stronger reaction to the Essence than normal people, so I suspect it’s because of the Essence that’s already in you. Let’s see what more does to you.”

  He pressed a button on a silver canister attached to the wall. A mist filled the room Eric was in.

  “No!” She lunged for Westerfield, and he grabbed her wrists.

  “Don’t make me hurt you. It would spoil all the fun.”

  That last word sank into her like talons.

  He kept a hold on her wrists but was looking at Eric. “Death match two: throw your girlfriend in with you, see what happens when it’s someone you love. I’ll wait until the mist settles so she’ll be perfectly sane as you maul her. It’s so much more enjoyable that way. Then I’ll finally experience some emotion. Hers, not yours, of course. You’ll have none as you tear her apart, because you’ll be mad.”

  Eric looked at her, a fierce expression on his face. “I’ll never hurt her.” He’d said that to her before, but hadn’t counted on being infected by madness. No, she couldn’t stand the thought of him mindlessly killing her. By the agony in his eyes, neither could he.

  “Do you think that loving cult thought they’d harm any living thing?” Westerfield turned to her. “He’s exhausted and already injured. You’ll have a small advantage there, though I’m not so sure how long it will last. You saw Sayre. He started the fight with a broken jaw.”

  Westerfield opened the door and shoved her in. Eric rushed forward but Westerfield slammed the door before he could reach it. Eric pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard.

  She put her arms around him and pulled back to look at him, her hand touching one of the few places on his face that wasn’t bruised or bloody. “I’m sorry, Eric. I’m sorry I caused this to happen to you. To us.”

  “I came here because I wanted to, not because I had to. And you didn’t cause this.”

  She lifted his hand, wincing at the cut on the side of his palm. “You are my hero. No matter what happens—” The words choked in her throat. She met his gaze. “We made love when you were out. You weren’t dreaming that. And it was beautiful and wonderful, and I felt not-quite-right about it, but I hoped it would bring you back, and—”

  He kissed her, bracing her face, moving close to her. “Keep kissing me. Don’t stop.”

  An order, as though that would stop the madness. She complied, because kissing him seemed a lot better than standing around waiting.

  Several minutes passed. “It’s working,” she whispered.

  “How much could you hear from the speaker out there?” he whispered back.

  “It wasn’t very clear.”

  “I don’t think it’s the kissing. I bet it’s the antidote.”

  The antidote! Holy crap, she hadn’t even thought about that. The antidote stopped the psychosis.

  “How well can you act?” he asked again, nuzzling her neck.

  “Good enough. What’s on your mind?”

  “I pretend to go crazy and strangle you. Then I collapse in grief. He opens the door.”

  “I freeze time.”

  “Uh-huh. Then I torch the place. I can’t get to him directly, but maybe it’ll work indirectly.”

  “I’m game.” Her heart beat the strains of sweet, splendid hope.

  “Do what you have to do to make it look authentic: scratch, kick, whatever. Pretend I’ve bitten your neck.”

  She screamed, holding her neck. “No, Eric! It’s me, Fonda. You came here to save me, remember! Which means you care about me. You. Care. About. Me.” He did. “Eric, look at me.”

  He did, his mouth twisting as though he were fighting a demon inside him. If she didn’t know better, she would have wondered if the Essence was working. His hands slipped from her face to her throat.

  “No.” The word came out strangled as she squeezed it out of her mouth.

  His eyes went blank. He pushed her down to the floor. She fought him, kicking at his legs, and found herself in a familiar position—pinned beneath his body. His arms trembled with the strength he was supposedly using to strangle her. She scratched at his clothes, gasping, pushing all the blood up to her face. Her eyes bulged out. She shuddered and went limp.

  He growled and screamed and laid her on the floor, pacing, hitting the walls, or at least that’s what it sounded like. He made so many strange noises that she had to fight to keep from looking up to see what he was doing. Playing out the craziness, she guessed, and then he would come to his senses. He knelt beside her, checking her pulse, letting her hand drop to the floor as he had with Sayre.

  “No. Noooo!” He dropped his head on her stomach and released the agonized cries of a wounded animal.

  She heard the door lock click and then open. Waited a heartbeat until she heard Westerfield say, “Eric, you—”

  She opened her eyes. Westerfield was frozen in front of the door, mouth ajar. She leapt to her feet while Eric ran to Westerfield and pushed him, sending him to the floor. “Lock him in.”

  “Good idea.”

  They rushed out and locked the door. “Get out of his sight as soon as you can.”

  As they ran to the door, they heard the lock click. Westerfield had unlocked it with his ability.

  A fire erupted at the desk, and another at the door as they passed through the opening. They ran, and she held her side as a stitch cramped. Eric’s fingers were curled around hers.

  Sunlight slanted through the trees, lighting their way. They reached the truck and Eric swiveled around to look behind them. So did she. He came from behind one of the tree trunks, his footsteps heavy. Without a word they both jumped in and Eric tore away. She looked back, terrified Westerfield would send the truck rolling. Smoke already billowed into the sky.

  “I can’t see him. I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or not.”

  He pulled her against him, driving
with one hand. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, afraid if she opened her mouth too much would come tumbling out. How scared she’d been of losing him, how incredible and shocking that he’d tried to bargain with his life, and mostly that he’d come for her in the first place.

  Finally she asked, “How about you? You’re a mess.”

  “I’m fine. Bruised, scratched. As long as he didn’t have rabies. Son of a bitch bit me.” He lifted his arm and looked at a bite mark above his wrist.

  She touched the outer edge of the mark. “How did Sayre end up there? That was totally trippy, seeing him.”

  He filled her in on everything. The part about the voice that told Eric her body needed to be close to her soul was the eeriest.

  “But it was right,” Eric said. “If I hadn’t known that, I might have done everything for nothing, because I wouldn’t have risked taking your body there. And you would have still . . .” He squeezed her closer instead of saying the word. After a few minutes he said, “Call Magnus and let him know we’re all right.”

  She did, giving him a brief rundown of events.

  “Are you coming back here?” Magnus asked on the speaker phone.

  “No, we’re staying away,” Eric answered. “No need to draw them there. But I have a job for you: make up a batch of antidotes. It saved my ass. And it might save the rest of my people’s assess, too.” He was looking at her.

  He signed off, and she settled next to him, reveling in the feel of being in her skin again. Of being with Eric. As soon as she got comfortable, she sat up. “Westerfield’s targeting an Amish village. I heard him talking to someone named Malcolm, right after he captured me. His name is Neil, not the same first name as on the identification he showed me, so Westerfield probably isn’t his last name. Anyway, he said something about the Essence being ready for tomorrow. I saw pictures of people, kids, and a tack on a map in southern Maryland. They’re going to kill more children. We have to stop them.”

  “They’ll probably use the same plane, same hangar. So we head out tonight, disable the plane, and wait for him to show up. And we do our damnedest to put this guy out.”