Beyond the Darkness

by Jaime Rush

  From somewhere in his mind he heard, Are you secure?

  Pope. He was going to do something.

  Yes, he answered. “Hold on. Pope’s got a plan.”

  Baal appeared above them again, but before it could try another swipe, the vehicle jerked to the left, ramming into the car. Tires screeched and the car zigzagged across the asphalt in a jerky wobble, ending up behind them again. Thank God no one had come from the other direction. As much as he wanted Yurek dead, he didn’t want some innocent killed in a head-on collision.

  He saw human legs dangling off the side of the Tank. Baal had gone human. It was harder to hold on when you were a dog.

  “Stay here,” Cheveyo said. “It’s the safest place to be.” He wiped away the blood with his sleeve.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get rid of the dog.”

  To call it a dog really wasn’t fair to dogs.

  “Let me heal you,” she said.

  “No, you need all your strength right now. I’ll be fine.”

  He heard her words before the wind carried them away: “Obstinate, boneheaded male!” As soon as he got to the roof, he pulled out his knife. Baal twisted to his side, then morphed back to dog again, his only weapon. Cheveyo lunged at it and it backed off. The blood was getting in the way, though, making his hand slippery and forcing him to continually swipe it out of his eyes.

  Yurek came around the side again. What the hell was that idiot doing? Oh, hell. Pope was going to do a sideways smash again. Cheveyo dropped to his knees and grabbed hold of the air compressor a second before the vehicle jammed into the car. This time Yurek lost control, overcorrecting and veering off the shoulder. The tires hit the rocks on the shoulder and the car rolled.

  Cheveyo turned in time to see the Glouk lunging at him, teeth bared. He rolled to the side as Baal skidded on the slanted surface of the roof. Because of that surface, Cheveyo nearly kept rolling right off the side. He grabbed onto one of the air vents as the rest of his body slipped over the edge.

  Baal approached, its teeth bared, red eyes focused on Cheveyo’s hands where they clutched the unwieldy corners. He had no defense. All he could do was let go. He glanced behind him. He didn’t like what he saw. On this side, the shoulder was edged in large rocks. He tried to pull himself up, but the blood loss was making him weak. The cold wind was sucking out his energy, too.

  Baal edged closer, buffeted by the wind and slipping on Cheveyo’s blood, trying to keep its balance as it readied for attack. Its teeth, bared as it approached his hands, were even sharper than its claws. Cheveyo was having a hard time gripping the plastic vent anyway. He would die by a hard landing on rocks either way, with shredded hands or without. What would happen to Petra? Pope? The questions were enough to overcome his pain and weakness. He glanced at the rocks going by in a blur. Maybe he’d survive.

  One . . .

  Two . . .

  Baal roared with pain and jerked around to look at the knife handle sticking out of its flank. Petra’s knife. It morphed to man again, pulling out the knife and searching for the perpetrator of its injury. Petra had climbed to the top of the ladder, and her upper body was above the roofline. She wouldn’t be able to get out of Baal’s line of sight fast enough. Baal shifted its grip on the knife, readying it to throw back at her, but its fingers fumbled on the slippery blood on the handle. The knife dropped on the roof and slid toward her. She grabbed it and, with narrowed eyes, made to throw it again.

  Baal slid to the side, slowing its fall by grabbing onto one of the vents, and fell to the road on the other side. She scrambled across the roof toward Cheveyo, holding onto the vents for balance.

  “I can’t hold on anymore.” His hands were slipping; he couldn’t get a grip.

  She pounded on the roof. “Stop! Stop, Pope!” She flattened herself and grabbed for his hands. Just like he’d held onto her, now she was holding onto him. The Tank was slowing. She grunted with the effort of pulling up his weight.

  “Let me go!” he said. “You’re going to end up falling over the edge with me.”

  He heard every ounce of emotion of her voice when she said, “I will not let you go! I will not let you die!”

  “Petra, we’re stopped! Let me drop to the ground.”

  With a start she looked around. “We are stopped.”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine. But your devotion is appreciated.”

  With a hysterical little laugh/hiccup, she let him go. He landed on his feet, feeling every slice that son of a bitch had inflicted on him. The cuts on his scalp burned like fire, and now he could feel the warm, sticky blood flowing down his neck.

  Pope came around the front. “Baal landed on the highway and rolled, then raced into the woods.”

  Cheveyo flexed his aching hands. “Let’s go back for Yurek. If he’s injured, we can take him easily.”

  She pointed at him. “You can’t take anyone, not like that.”

  He looked down at himself, covered in blood, and then had to wipe it out of his eyes. “It’s our best chance. Come on, let’s get inside.”

  She dashed to the closet opposite the bathroom, pulled out towels, and returned to where he sank into the passenger seat while Pope put the Tank into gear again.

  Cheveyo pointed ahead. “There’s a turnaround coming up. We’ll need to get my bike, too.”

  She knelt in front of him, carefully wrapping one of the towels around his head. A grimace warped her features. She grabbed a hand towel and ran to the bathroom, then returned. The wet towel was instantly bloodred.

  “Let me heal you. These aren’t mortal injuries, not yet. I won’t be risking myself or your abilities.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Other than feeling a little light-headed.

  “Stubborn, mule-headed . . .” She mumbled several other adjectives.

  “Yep, every one of those and more,” he said, his voice slurring a little.

  Pope turned the Tank around and headed back. They came up on the wrecked car first.

  “No, do not stop.” She pointed at Cheveyo. “Look at him. Can he fight?”

  “You should see the other guy,” Cheveyo said with a chuckle. “He’s not going to be in such good shape either.” He got up, annoyed that he needed to use the arms of the chair to help. His knees buckled, and with one little poke from her finger, he was sitting down again.

  “Keep going,” she told Pope, taking charge. Damned unprincesslike, if you asked him. “Find the bike. That we can manage.”

  They all looked at the car, half buried in tall grasses.

  “He’s not in there,” Pope said. “I don’t feel him.”

  “Can he heal himself?” she asked. “The cretin who was trying to kill my brother and Fonda could.”

  “It’s possible.”

  In a few minutes they spotted the bike lying just off the road. The chrome caught the headlights. Cheveyo started to get up again, but the damned woman poked him right back into the seat. “We’ll handle it.” She leaned down into his face, her expression stubborn, her gorgeous lips pursed. “And I’m healing you.”

  He opened his mouth to object but nothing came out. His vision narrowed to pinpoints. Then smaller. Then darkness.

  He had no idea how long he’d been in the darkness when he came to the surface of consciousness. He’d fallen asleep, which was damned unwarriorlike. When he came to, they were driving down the road leading to his cabin. He heard her saying, “Even though they know what the RV looks like, I still think it’s a good idea if you keep moving. We’ll rest here for the night and start all over again tomorrow.” She sounded weary.

  He touched his scalp, his eyes still not cooperating enough to open completely. No towel, only stiff clumps of hair. No cuts. He shifted his shoulder. No pain. She’d healed him. Dammit.

  He focused his eyes at last, her fine ass in view only a few feet in front of him. She stood between the seats. Woman knew how to fill out a pair of jeans, even if she couldn’t follow directions worth a damn.

&
nbsp; He felt drugged, woozy. She’d healed his cuts, but the blood loss would take longer.

  “He lives,” she said in a bright voice. She knelt in front of him, studying him. At least she wasn’t wearing that stubborn expression, the last thing he’d taken with him into unconsciousness. “How do you feel?”

  “Like playing a round of tennis.” He pushed up to a sitting position.

  “You’ll be tired for a bit. We’ll clean up here, rest for the night, and head out in the morning.” Still bossing everyone around. “The wounds weren’t terribly deep, but I could see the muscle in one cut on your shoulder. Which was pretty gross, actually. The bleeding had me the most worried, especially when you passed out.”

  How could she look so chirpy? Or was it chipper? “How come you’re not wiped out?”

  She smiled. “Because I didn’t heal you. Pope did. I was going to, but he said he could try. Luckily he still has that ability. He doesn’t get wiped out like I do. That way I’m still alert while you sleep.”

  “I’m not sleeping.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He looked at Pope. “Did you encourage this bossy attitude?”

  “I think it suits her. Don’t you?”

  The problem was, she was messing with him big-time, getting what little blood he had racing. The Tank came to a stop in front of the cabin.

  He got to his feet, trying to look as steady as he could. “Pope, I think you should stay in the Tank, keep moving around. Hit the back roads.”

  Pope and Petra exchanged grins. “Splendid idea,” he said with a nod.

  She put her arms around Cheveyo’s shoulders. “That’s why he’s in charge.”

  Oh brother, she was patronizing him. If he was just a little more delirious, he’d kiss her silly. Right now it was taking all his concentration to remain standing.

  He walked unsteadily toward the door. Holding onto the lever, he paused, sniffing the air. “Do I smell . . . sage?”

  She nodded. “I cleared the energy. Now all you have to do is clean yourself up.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “You’re a mess.”

  He swiped at his cheek and looked at the teal eye shadow on his fingers. “The blood and dirt is fine. This makeup stuff . . . not cool.”

  Chapter 13

  The car seemed to roll for a long time, though it was only for a few seconds. Yurek was thrown violently around, finally smashing against the door and crumpling in a heap. His body was twisted, battered, and he couldn’t seem to move.

  The sound of glass shattering and the thud of the car still echoed in his senses. He didn’t know how long he remained there, but he heard thudding footsteps coming closer. The hunter? Pope? For a moment he didn’t care, just wanted it over. The pain was overwhelming.

  It was the Glouk’s face that appeared through the broken window. “Are you alive?”

  “Yes. Get me out of here.”

  After some jiggling sounds, the Glouk said, “I can’t open the door. It’s dented.” He broke out the jagged bits of glass from the edges of the window frame, then reached in and pulled on Yurek’s shoulders. Slowly, painfully, Baal inched him out the window. Glouks were strong, which was what made them so useful.

  Yurek stumbled but caught his balance with the hood of the car. He was standing by sheer will. The will to live. To succeed. “We have to leave. They’ll be back for us.”

  The car was smashed, the engine dead. He’d stolen it from a car lot. He would miss it. They loped toward the cover of forest. Baal was limping, and Yurek saw a shiny bloodstain on his pant leg.

  They walked deep into the woods. “This is good,” Yurek said, strain evident in his voice. He couldn’t go another step. He collapsed on the floor of pine needles, his body wracked with pain. It would take a while to mend. “That did not go well.”

  Baal dropped beside him, wincing as he pressed his hand over the cut on his leg. He looked at Yurek. He had the tone of someone who had been scorned. “You could have thought about me being on top of the vehicle when you decided to ram it.” He tore away the fabric to reveal what was obviously a knife wound on his thigh.

  The Glouk morphed to canine form, his long tongue lashing the cut in slow, deliberate strokes.

  Yurek had to look away, his stomach twisting. “I had faith that you’d hang on, skillful predator that you are.”

  Baal morphed back to human form, something he could do enviably fast. He thankfully brought the visage of clothing with him. His scowl disappeared and his shoulders lifted. “Next time I’ll be prepared. For you and for her.”

  “Her?”

  He pointed to the slit in his leg. “The female did this. She took me off guard. I would have killed the hunter if not for her.”

  Too bad the whole lot of them couldn’t have been killed in one tidy accident. Except for Pope. Bringing him back alive had a much bigger reward. He, too, was curious as to what Pope was hiding. Likely it was his daughter, perhaps even the man with her. The man who was only part human. Yurek hoped to return to Surfacia with Pope in custody and a report on the deaths of the two rebels.

  He tried to stand, grabbing the trunk of a tree for support. “I had picked up Pope’s Essence near a road that went into the woods before you called to tell me where he’d transported to. Tomorrow morning, early, we’ll return there. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” He collapsed to the ground again. Unless he died first.

  He wasn’t mad at her. Maybe was too tired to be mad, and that would come later. Petra helped Cheveyo into the house. He managed to walk on his own, but she put her hand on his back, just in case.

  “Yurek may not have even gotten to the house,” she said. “He may have just sensed Pope in the area and was homing in on him.”

  “Maybe.”

  He’d seemed a little tipsy in the Tank. She liked that side of him, even if she didn’t like how he’d gotten that way. She knew he never got tipsy, would never lose control.

  But he loses control when he’s around you. And was none too happy about it. Bad timing, while they’d been running through the woods with their enemy in pursuit, but she wouldn’t soon forget that kiss.

  She’d felt it tonight, too, desire spiraling through her even while danger tore away at them.

  “I’m taking a bath,” he said, heading to the stairs.

  “Let me help.” At his raised eyebrow, she added, “Help you up the stairs and get the tub ready. You’re still a little wobbly.”

  “I’m never wobbly.” Then he wobbled. “Shi . . .” He let the word fade and accepted her presence behind him on the stairs as he made his way up.

  His bedroom was spectacular, a large bed with tree trunk frame and headboard dominating the open, airy space with the wooden peak ceiling. A huge painting of a jaguar adorned one wall, and sketches that reminded her of perhaps Mayan artwork, all of jaguar gods, covered the other walls. A matching dresser ran along one wall, a desk and computer sat against the other. The curtains and bedspread were brown suede, very inviting. Too inviting.

  The huge jetted tub in the bathroom was even more inviting. It had a blue window and European styling. She bent down inside it and pushed down the drain stopper, then ran the water. There was nothing feminine about the space, all done in a hunting lodge décor with twig-looking fixtures. Still, she loved it.

  She poured some liquid body soap into the tub and watched the bubbles foam. At the sound of water running, she turned to find him naked, standing in the shower. “Aren’t you going to take a bath?”

  “Yeah, but I’m rinsing off the blood so I’m not soaking in it.”

  He cut the shower a minute later, walked over and up the steps to the tub, and sat down inside, even though it was only half full. Damn him, walking around naked and gorgeous, and her feeling all freaky aroused. She focused on his feet, propped up on the side of the tub.

  She knew why getting sexually involved was a bad idea. Eric had warned the Rogues that it would put them at risk, distract them, and it had. But they’d survived. She was the only one wh
o hadn’t fallen, but now she could understand how, say, making suckface at the wrong time could be a tad dangerous. Mostly she knew how loving someone who was in constant danger would wear on her heart and soul. So she should go, leave him alone.

  He tapped the ledge of the tub. “Sit, keep me company.”

  With a weary sigh, she did, even though she knew better.

  His head was leaning against a built-in pillow. There was another one in the opposite corner, for a guest. The steam off the tub was nearly as inviting as the parts of his body she could still see, which was his chest and lower legs. Bubbles and waves of water washed up the ridges of his abdomen. She had noticed—okay, it was hard not to notice—that he’d been fully hard when he went from shower to tub. Was he feeling that freaky arousal, too?

  “Let me wash your hair,” she said, reaching for the shampoo bottle. She poured some into her cupped palm and gestured for him to turn around.

  “You’re going to torture me, aren’t you?”

  “You’re healed. It won’t hurt.”

  He turned anyway, sitting straight up in front of her. “Do you know how good it feels to have someone wash your hair?”

  “Pretend I’m your hairdresser.”

  He grunted, whatever that meant.

  She’d never dated a guy who had hair longer than midway down his neck. Cheveyo’s fell past his shoulders in thick, lush waves. She scrubbed out some of the crusty spots of blood, trying to forget how lacerated his scalp looked before Pope healed him.

  There was even a handheld sprayer in the tub, and she picked it up and turned it on, rinsing his hair. She thought, but wasn’t sure, she heard him groan.

  Be strong. Don’t fall for him. He’s totally right, you fall for him and he’s going to leave or die, and you will be crushed.

  “Did I tell you how effing fantastic you were back there?” He turned to face her, his expression wide-eyed with wonder. She liked this playful side of him, even if it was induced. Except it was making him even more juicy. “You threw the knife at Baal while hanging onto a moving vehicle. A moving vehicle. And hit him.”

  She settled into his praise, and then it hit her. She had thrown the knife and nailed her target. The rush of that! “I was pretty kick-ass, wasn’t I?”