by Angel Lawson
The queen has her own unit of guards but their faces are unfamiliar. One guard with wavy blond hair and a beard to match steps forward.
“Quiet!”
The entire hall falls into silence. Maverick inches her way behind a stone pillar.
“You’re all here to learn of the fate of our mission,” the Queen says, her voice strong and confident. “A sacrifice was made. The entry breached. They lost a man.”
“But,” a man across the room says. “What about the cannons?”
“Step forward,” the Queen demands, but it’s pointless because the guards, including the one that had spoken before, have dragged him from his spot in the crowd. In an even tone she asks, “Did you wish to speak?”
“The cannons,” he says again. Fear shadows his expression. “There is fighting on the battlefield, correct?”
As if on cue another explosion rattles the lead-glass windowpanes.
“As this man has pointed out, a battle rages in the south side of the country. During the attack on the entry gate complications arose.” Murmurs roll through the crowd. The Queen holds up her hand, asking for silence. Maverick hasn’t moved an inch. “The Guardians are in our realm. They think they can keep us back, but we’ll kill them, leaving the gate unprotected. It’s only a matter of time before we obliterate it entirely.”
She waves her hand and the bearded guard pushes the questioning man to his knees.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes but everything moves too quick. Maverick watches as a blade slices through the air and with a quick stab, releases the life from the man’s body. He falls face first, cheek landing on the stone floor. It’s only then that she notices the flash of gray rubbing against the queen’s feet.
The cat.
I blink and stare at the words on the page, or rather, pages. I flip through the notebook, stunned at the volume. I haven’t written a sentence in the past month and then, wham! All that tumbles out without a second thought.
A strange sensation overcomes me. A little out-of-body and a whole lot déjà vu. Just like with the first part of my book, the story feels close. Too close. But how? I know I wasn’t ever in the Otherside. I was here, dealing with the loss of my parents and surviving. I think back to what Dylan has told me about the past five years. That after the skirmish in the forest they transformed into men and went to fight a deadly battle against the Morrigan—keeping her out of this realm. Maybe that’s it? Maybe I’m seeing their time in the Otherside.
A knock on my door makes me jump and I close my notebook, although not before I see the final line about the gray cat.
Anita.
I’d definitely like to have a conversation with her—if only I could find out where she’s hiding.
From the fading light outside my window I see that hours have passed. Just how long have I been up here? Whoever is outside the door bangs again and I hop up, and shout, “I’m coming.”
I don’t run, I’m still annoyed from the meeting earlier. I feel like there’s a tug of war on my body—my mind. Is the Darkness gone? The Morrigan? When they suggested I may have a little of her power left I can’t deny I was excited. In a strange way I missed her. But I know she’s an evil bitch and the last thing I want is her to control me.
I have a moment of clarity as I reach for the door. That’s the thing. The Morrigan didn’t really have control of me. When we were one I could control her. I turn the knob and Clinton stands on the other side, knuckles raised.
“Were you going to bust down the door?”
“If you didn’t open it, I would’ve,” he replies. He studies me. “You okay?”
“Just tired.”
He frowns. “Well I hate to tell you, but we’ve got to go out.”
“And do what?”
“We tracked down a few people with symptoms. I figured you’d want to go with me to check them out—see if they’re infected.”
Hell yes I want to go.
“Let me get my jacket.”
*
“Shit,” I say, looking at the man in quarantine. I’ve never seen him before. Never heard or seen his name. Clinton said something to the guard and got us five minutes of access. His gray pallor and glassy eyes look exactly like Xavier’s before he died. “Who is he?”
Clinton shrugs but he takes a quick photo of the medical forms hanging on a clipboard. We move to the next room and there are two more victims. One female and another male.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter again. “What do we do? How do we stop this?”
“Find out where they got it—how or who is spreading it.”
“And if we don’t?”
For a moment I’m filled with relief that there’s no way it could have been me. Quickly, though, the annoyance that with the Morrigan on the loose I have zero control over her. I rest a hand on Clinton’s arm.
“I think I know who to look for.”
“Who?”
“Anita Cross.”
Chapter Fourteen
Clinton
I’m not surprised to hear Morgan suggest we look for Anita, although I am pretty curious that it took her this long to make the connection. Anita and Xavier are both players in the Morrigan’s game. I’m just not sure to what extent.
“Any idea where she may be?” I ask on the way down the elevator.
“None.”
“Seriously?”
“She’s wealthy, gorgeous, and lived in an amazing penthouse,” she says. “Her brother was a banker or something. Other than our writing program, we had very little in common.” The bell chimes, notifying us that we’re on our floor. The doors open and I step out. Morgan hasn’t moved an inch—her eyes narrowed in concentration.
“Morgan? You okay?”
“I think I know where we can get more information on Anita.”
“Yeah?”
She steps forward and slips her hand in mine. “We need to pay a visit to my advisor.”
“The professor?”
“Yeah, he said he didn’t know where she went but he’s a nosy bastard. I suspect he’ll have an idea.”
Every soldier has a crossroads, where they have to make a decision in a blink. Sitting behind the wheel of my truck with Morgan in the passenger seat, I have to make a choice. Risk more lives or reveal a secret that may send shockwaves through my home and life.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” I ask, giving us both one last out. “He may have questions.”
“I think Anita is an important factor in all of this.”
I nod and roll the truck into the street. At the first intersection I have the option to turn right or left. The university is to the right but I head left. Morgan isn’t familiar enough with the city to realize we’re going in the wrong direction until a few blocks later when the scenery changes. The streets become cleaner. The houses nicer. We’re in a residential area.
I notice her fingers shift on the seat. She leans forward and asks, “Where are we?”
“Sutton Place.”
“This isn’t near the school.”
“No,” I agree, spotting the house ahead. It takes up half a block. Red brick and three stories high. “You said you wanted to talk to Professor Christensen. This is where he is.”
She faces me. “What’s going on, Clinton?”
I open the truck door. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Chapter Fifteen
Morgan
I’m filled with a mixture of confusion and dread as we walk up the steps to the grand house. Clinton refuses to tell me what we’re doing here, and his jaw is so tight I think it may crack. The door is opened by a servant who doesn’t seem surprised to see Clinton, but his eyes do hesitate on me for a brief moment.
“Seriously,” I say to my Guardian as we stand in a small but ornate foyer, “you’ve got to tell me what’s going on.”
He opens his mouth, no doubt to tell me nothing important, but the servant returns. “Dr. Christensen will see you now. Follow me.”
&
nbsp; He leads us down a narrow hallway. The walls are covered in a thick, aging paper. I catch snippets of the images as we pass. They appear to be battle scenes from history. Some are quite gruesome.
I don’t know what to expect, obviously, but I’m surprised when we’re escorted to a large, modern kitchen. Everything in it shines. The appliances, the counter top. The pots hanging over the wide stove. The strangest part is Professor Christensen standing over the range in a black and white striped apron. Something sizzles on the flat surface and he flips it with a spatula. He glances up as we walk into the room and smiles.
“Now this is a surprise,” he says, removing the food and placing it in a bowl. He turns off the range and wipes his hands before walking toward us. He offers his hand forward. “Clinton, it’s always a pleasure to see you. How’s the music?”
“Good, sir.”
Sir?
“And Morgan. I knew this day would come.” His eyes flash between us. “I’d hoped it would be under better circumstances.”
The confusion I’m feeling merges with anger. I’m totally in the dark and I don’t like it one bit. Unable to hold my tongue I blurt, “What the hell is going on?”
Christensen looks at Clinton. “You haven’t told her?”
“Not a word. I felt like it may be better coming from you.”
I grab Clinton by the shirt. It’s a pointless move. He’d squash me in a second, but my mind is reeling from this moment and I look into his gray eyes and say something I know is true, “Start talking now. Or I walk out of here and none of you will see me again.”
Christensen’s eyebrows lift and in a controlled voice says, “Sit down, Morgan.”
He gestures to a high stool across the counter. Clinton takes one and after a steadying breath I take the other. Christensen pulls another up to the end.
Clinton takes my hand and as much as I want to push him away I feel a comfort in his touch. He says, “Christensen is one of us. Part of the network created to keep the Darkness and Morrigan out of this world.”
Christensen nods.
“We’re part of a team that includes the Guardians, The Nead, Sue and Davis, and the Professor,” Clinton asks.
“Anyone else?” I ask.
“Not specifically. There are those in the community that are aware of who we are and what we do. The shaman at the fights. Tran down at the magic shop.”
“Hildi?
“The Valkyrie?” Christensen asks.
Clinton shrugs. “I think she has a feeling. She’s very astute and is from the gods herself.”
“We each have a role,” Christensen says. “The men are the soldiers.”
“And you?” I ask.
“I’m what mortals would call a General.”
“You’re calling the shots?” A feeling of dread bubbles in the pit of my stomach. “I don’t understand? Are you not a real professor? Is my work pointless?”
“Oh no, Morgan. I’m historian and my job is to manage the writings and writers during the times of Darkness. Your work is priceless. Each incarnation of the Darkness must have a historian. Someone on the front lines to tell the myths and mythologies—the intricate side that human history will miss. They’ll see the sickness, the disease, or wars. They won’t see the game play from one realm to the other.”
“Do you really see it like that?” I ask them both. “A game?”
“A deadly and precise one. To think of it as anything else is foolish. The Morrigan relishes war and destruction. You know that. We must always be one step ahead.”
I think about what he’s saying. It’s a game. We’re all just pieces or even pawns for the Morrigan’s playing board. What confuses me most is who am I? What is my job in all of this since the split?
Clinton rests his hand on my shoulder. “We didn’t end the battle when we split you and the Morrigan apart. We always knew it was a possibility that we would create another piece. It seems we created two.”
“Two?” I ask.
“You know the myths often include three sides to the Raven Queen, each with specific qualities.”
“I remember. Each goddess prevails over a different concept. Land, fertility, or war. Dylan thought they were exaggerated stories to make the Morrigan more intimidating. You think the spell actually brought on that manifestation?”
“Not at first. You seemed different. More at peace. I thought maybe we banished her but now that people are dying…” Clinton trails off and looks at Christensen.
“So you think I still carry part of the Goddess inside of me.”
Christensen nods. “Yes.”
“Which part?”
“Either war or land. Because fertility is already showing her hand.”
I wish they’d stop talking in riddles but the intensity of their expression stops me from lashing out. “You’re considering the spread of the virus as fertility—that’s what’s being created.” They both nod. My mind races, thinking to the reason we came here in the first place. “Anita is the third piece. Is that what you’re saying?”
Christensen leans over the counter. “She stole the kiss from you, Morgan. Took the Darkness right out of your body and has spread it across the city. The plague is here and I’m not sure how to stop it.”
“Do you know where to find her?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t, but Anita has always been bold, it shouldn’t be long before she makes her move. The Morrigan is restless.”
“Even if we do find her,” I ask them, “how do we stop her for good?”
There’s not an ounce of empathy behind Clinton’s gray eyes when he replies, “We’ll have to kill her.”
Chapter Sixteen
Morgan
I’m not angry after leaving Christensen’s home, but I am tired. Exhausted really, and I know it’s more mental than anything else. Between the writing binge, the confirmation that I’m still tied up with the Morrigan, and everything else Christensen revealed, I’m spent.
Clinton is smart enough to give me some space, and the spidey-senses of the other Guardians must be on high alert because the house is quiet when I get home.
I don’t go to my room, instead I head straight to the pantry. We missed dinner and I’m starving. I don’t want food and hope Sue has a stash of sweets in the cabinets. I cackle in delight as I find the motherload: boxes of cookies and candy. I reach for a huge container of fudge and shove a piece in my mouth.
“Drowning your emotions with sugar?”
Bunny stands in the door, looking just as tired as I feel. I hold out the container and he takes three pieces of fudge, popping them into his mouth one after the other.
“I saw you fight last night. It’s the first time I’ve seen you like that.”
He holds up his limp arm. “Magic helps.”
“No. There was intuition and grace. The same skills you use on your paintings came out in your fighting.”
His copper hair has flopped in his eyes and I reach out and push it aside so I can see his face. “You disappeared after—where did you go?”
“Nowhere,” he says. “Here. I just didn’t want to be there anymore. Too many people, you know? It’s not my scene.”
I nod and pick up another piece of fudge. I take a bite and then offer him the other half. He reaches for it but I pull it back, gesturing that I’d like to give it to him myself. He opens his mouth and I pop the treat in, rubbing my finger along his bottom lip.
Bunny chews the sticky fudge and swallows. He stares at me so hard that I squirm. To my surprise he asks, “Can I kiss you?”
“Of course.”
I’ve been waiting weeks for him to do it again. A burst of fire ignites between us and I lick the sweet chocolate off his tongue.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell him, linking my arms around his neck. “Why have you been hiding from me?”
His hand squeezes my hip. “I’ve just been in a weird place.”
“You know I’m always here if you need something, right?”
“Yeah.” His eyes move from my mouth back up to my gaze. “Right now I really need some more of that fudge.”
I grab the box and then two more filled with other treats. “Come on. Let’s drown our worries together.”
*
With the remains of our gluttony surrounding us, Bunny and I snuggle on the couch. He reluctantly agreed to watch a cheesy movie with me and I’m full-out pretending the world isn’t falling apart around us right now. Total denial about the sickness, Anita, and my role in the preservation of this world. I have a strong suspicion Bunny is hiding from something too, and for once I just let it go.
It’s a quiet moment of peace for both of us. No expectations. No dramatic build up. I feel safe with him. Close. When I reach for him and press my lips against his pale throat, he doesn’t resist.
His fingers push into my hair and I move to my knees so I can kiss him better. A box of cookie crumbs falls to the floor and I laugh. He smiles and his copper-brown eyes hold mine. “Don’t you wish it was always this easy?”
“What? Life? Sex? Love?”
His head tilts at the word ‘love’ and his mouth crashes into mine. My stomach flip-flops at the soft strokes of his tongue. I reach for his pants, eager to touch him.
“Can I?” I ask, in the same way he asked me. It’s a weird moment—after months of feeling like the less experienced one—the virgin—with Bunny, I feel like I’m the one leading him. He’d told me before that he didn’t have confidence in this area—and then proceeded prove himself wrong in the most delicious way. I want to do the same for him.
He nods his approval, Adam’s apple bobbing in this throat. I slide between his legs and unbutton his pants, shifting them over his hips and to the floor. His erection is hard beneath the cotton of his shorts and all it takes is a slight touch to get it to rise in response. I smile at his reaction and his cheeks turn red. I rest my hand on his length.
