Transcending Darkness

by Airicka Phoenix

  Vi stuck her head out of the opening in the wall. “Watch for the root!” she reminded her.

  Juliette braved a quick nod and started her slow climb downward. She didn’t actually let out her breath until her foot hit bottom. Only then did she double over and wheeze. The cool night air swept around her, tearing at her clothes and licking at the sweat soaking her skin. She tried not to pay attention to it as she sprinted across the yard to the low, wooden fence the Ricor’s had put up a few years back when they’d gotten their Pomeranian Muffy. She climbed over quickly and made her way up the side of the house to the driveway.

  From there, she just ran.

  Chapter 15

  Getting shot had a unique sort of pain that most other injuries didn’t. There was the initial burn as hot metal pierced through flesh. Then the temporary numbness where the brain hasn’t fully caught up to what happened. Finally, there was the crippling sting of a fresh burn and the raging throb of being stabbed. It was probably why most criminals preferred guns to knives.

  Killian had been shot before so the sensation was a familiar one, yet it never felt better. It still hurt like a mother. But at least the bullet had gone straight through. Digging fragments out was a whole other process he did not want to think about.

  “Sir?” Frank entered Killian’s bedroom, a phone in one hand and a blood soaked towel in the other, pressed down on the knife wound on his shoulder. “The cleanup crew will be here in an hour for the bodies.”

  Killian nodded. He heaved one leg down off the bed. Then the other. His body screamed in protest. His skin seemed to be on fire around the hole Frank had stitched up, which seemed to have pissed off the injury. It thrummed with a sort of malicious glee that crawled up the rest of him to antagonize the colorful rainbow splattered across his torso.

  Christ, he wanted to throw up.

  “Sir, maybe you should stay in bed,” Frank advised.

  Killian shook his head. “Need to check on the men.” He shoved unsteadily to his feet and felt the room tilt. He squeezed his eyes shut as his bearings settled. “How many did we lose?”

  He heard Frank exhale heavily. “Five.”

  Killian opened his eyes, his anger boiling to the very cusp of his control. “Smith?”

  “Dead, sir. As are his men. Sir, perhaps you should stay—”

  “I’m fine!”

  His snarl was like a punch in the gut. It tugged at the stitches beneath the simple slap on bandage and Killian doubled over. Frank’s meaty hands were there, grabbing him and hauling him back into bed.

  “You are not well enough to go anywhere,” Frank stated flatly. “I will see to the men—”

  “No, they are my men.” But he didn’t try getting up again, all his energy having been vaporized. “I will see to them myself.”

  “Perhaps in the morning then,” Frank suggested.

  Killian started to shake his head. “No, I need to do it now—”

  Frank stiffened. He jerked back with one hand going to the plastic bit in his ear. He said nothing as he listened.

  “What?” Killian struggled to get up, but Frank held him down. “Frank!”

  Frank lowered the hand. His dark eyes met Killian’s.

  “It’s Miss Romero, sir.”

  Killian’s entire world tilted this time. He felt the very air flicker between black and red. Blood roared Hot between his ears, deafening him to everything but the madness he could feel clawing through him.

  “No…” He shoved the other man back with strengths he shouldn’t possibly possess considering he could barely keep his eyes open. “Where is she? Where’s Juliette?”

  “Sir!”

  But Killian was already on his feet, his pain numb in the blinding terror pounding through him as he staggered to the door.

  Please, God, please don’t let her be dead, he prayed over and over again through the thick haze clouding his thoughts. The corridor he’d walked a million times bobbed and swayed in a sick sort of game that twisted his insides. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut and will everything right, but that only amplified the splotches of gray weaving around the corners of his vision. His heart pounded in a wild and frantic tempo of war drums. Each beat resounded through his very bones. But it didn’t matter. Not the pain. Not the hot waves crawling up his skin. Not the possibility of tearing his stitches. None of it, except finding Juliette. He needed to find her. He needed to make sure she was all right. The rest wasn’t important if he’d lost her.

  “Killian!”

  Her voice echoed through the hollows of his subconscious, sounding small and far away. He tried to blink, but that only made everything blurrier.

  “Juliette…”

  Something gave. Maybe it was his legs or his whole body, but everything spun in a cartwheel then the ground vanished from beneath him. There was nothing but a strange floating sensation for several seconds or minutes or hours before he hit the ground with a muffled thud.

  “Killian!”

  A shadow leapt into the path of the ceiling lights, shielding him from their sharpness. Soft, cold hands cradled his hot cheeks, swept back his damp hair while a broken voice called his name over and over again. Raindrops hit his skin, each one stinging like acid upon contact. He tried to raise a hand or speak, but it hurt to even breathe. Instead, all he could do was close his eyes and give himself over to the numb nothingness on the other side. Eyes the sweet color of caramel were the last things he saw before everything faded to black.

  Time was a funny thing when one was running a fever. Everything was a fuzzy, groggy mess between dream and reality. For most of the three days, Killian had no idea which was which. It was all a sickening blur of voices and colors. But the thing they all shared, the singular, solid presence was always Juliette. She seemed to be in every snippet of memory. Her voice was the thing that kept drawing him back to consciousness. At least, what felt like consciousness; it was the one that came equipped with the blinding pain.

  By the fourth day, some of that had dulled to an almost bearable hum. The hole still radiated with its own heat and felt like it was vibrating with its own unique brand of agony, but the rest of him was less tender. He knew because someone kept fussing over him, coaxing food and water into him.

  It wasn’t until almost a week later that he finally opened his eyes. The room was dark, except for the lamp next to the bed. Beneath it, the alarm clock read three AM. But it was the figure curled up in the chair that caught his attention.

  Juliette.

  She wasn’t hurt. She was there, squished in an uncomfortable position, but alive. Unless she was a figment of his feverish imagination, something his sick mind had conjured to help ease him into acceptance. Not that there was such a thing. There was no peace or accepting that loss. The damn girl had burrowed herself so deep beneath his skin that he couldn’t even process anything different.

  He studied her in the fine whispers of light spilling through the messy knot of hair confined to the top of her head. It glided along the flushed curve of her cheek, the one not resting on her folded arms. She wore white tights under a loose, white top. Her feet were bare, exposing her dainty toes painted a light purple. Her knees were raised to hold her arms and she had her head tilted to one side. It was a wonder how she was able to sleep that way. He’d have already fallen face first to the ground. But it also made him wonder how long she’d been there. Had she really sat there the entire week, waiting for him to wake up? The thought made his chest hurt, a sort of hurt that had nothing to do with being pummeled by six guys or shot.

  Damn it, Juliette. What are you doing?

  Taking a deep breath, he called her name. Softly at first. Then louder when she didn’t budge right away. She came awake with a start. One leg slipped out from under her and she staggered forward, barely catching herself on the corner of the end table. Her wide eyes jumped around the room before settling on him.

  “Killian!” She threw herself out of the chair and perched on the edge of the mattress, next to his
hip. Her hands went to his face. One rested on his cheek. The other went to his brow. “How are you? How are you feeling?”

  He stared up at her, at the worry crinkling her brows and the fear darkening her eyes. Her face was chalky and drawn and held the resemblance of not enough sleep.

  “What are you doing?” he heard himself ask.

  The question seemed to confuse her before she realized something. She straightened, taking her hands with her. He felt their loss immediately.

  “I couldn’t leave you,” she said quietly. “Not when you’d been beaten and … and shot. I know I’m not allowed to worry about you, but damn it, Killian, you were shot!” She broke off when her voice quivered.

  “I meant what are you doing in that chair,” he murmured.

  Her head jerked up. The lamplight caught the dampness in her eyes and the sight of her tears hit him like a fist.

  “You told me not to stay the night,” she whispered. “It’s not staying the night if I don’t sleep in a bed.”

  Her logic was ridiculous, but it was a sharp spear in his gut and he wondered how many different ways she could possibly tear up his insides without lifting a finger.

  “Jesus, Juliette.” He tugged down the corner of the sheets. “Come to bed.”

  She seemed to shrink back a notch. “Maybe I should get Frank—”

  “Bed!” he said louder. “Get in.”

  Hesitance still stiffened her shoulders, but she carefully slid over him and climbed into the empty space on his other side. He drew the sheets up over her.

  “Come here.”

  “But you’re hurt—”

  “Damn it, woman!”

  She wiggled into his side, the one away from his injuries and carefully snaked an arm across his ribs. Her head nestled against his shoulder.

  Killian closed his eyes as her sweet scent washed over him, as her familiar weight and heat settled against his side. Seeing her when he woke up was one thing, but to feel her, to hold her and know she wasn’t his imagination was a reality that shook him to the core.

  “I thought something happened to you,” he murmured into the top of her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared.”

  “You scared?” she croaked. “I came in and you … you were covered in blood and so white. Then…” Her voice caught. The hand on his chest balled into a trembling fist. “I was so sure…”

  Hot, wet tears burned into his skin where her cheek lay. Against his palm, her back shuddered with her silent sobs and his heart broke.

  “Juliette…”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying to stop.”

  It was a bit of an effort getting both arms around her and not turning on his side. Already the movement was tugging at the stitching in his side, but he ignored it as he crushed her to him.

  “Ah, darling lamb.” He kissed the crown of her head. “What am I going to do with you?”

  Juliette was gone when Killian woke up again. The room was soaked in bright, warm sunshine that hurt the eyes and the sheets had been drawn securely about his waist, but the place next to him was cool and empty. The sight of it annoyed him far more than it probably should have. She’d been quietly leaving his bed for months while he slept and, while he assured himself it was what she was supposed to do, it still prickled at him whenever he reached for her and his fingers closed in air.

  Carefully, he tossed the sheets back and lowered his feet to the soft carpet. His muscles only twanged slightly with the motion, which he took as a good sign. He padded to the washroom and shut the door behind him.

  He didn’t look half as bad as he felt, he noted as he surveyed his injuries in the wall of mirror next to the shower. Aside from the weeks’ worth of beard making his face itch, the kaleidoscope of colors in various shades of purple, black, green, yellow and blue had mostly faded. His ribs and back had taken the worst of it, possibly from the kicking. There were a few blotches along his thighs, his arms and stomach, but they would all heal eventually. Even the bullet wound, which was a raw, painful mess of stitches and flesh.

  Killian exhaled slowly, his best attempt at tapering the boiling rage he could feel writhing like cobras deep in the very dark place inside him. Yet the anger had nothing to do with getting shot, it was the nerve of Smith and his pathetic group of morons who thought that they could waltz into his home and attack him. Had he honestly thought he would win?

  Discarding the pajama bottoms someone—possibly Frank—had dressed him in, he stepped into the full sized shower and shut the glass door behind him. There were six different sprays stationed around the eight by five cubical, but he only ever used one, the one with the pressure massage. The hard jets struck him in all the right places, softening the pained muscles while he scrubbed furiously at the rest of him.

  Half an hour later, he was showered, shaved and dressed once more. His side continued to pang, but he slapped on a fresh bandage and left.

  Frank met him at the end of the hall. Juliette must have told him Killian was awake, because he seemed unsurprised to see his employer on his feet.

  “There are a few matters that require—”

  “Where’s Juliette?”

  Frank fell into an easy step alongside him as they headed towards the office.

  “Miss Romero has gone to work. She left early this morning, but will return later this evening.”

  “How did she get here? Who brought her without my direct orders?”

  He reached his office and stalked straight to his desk.

  Frank hesitated by the door. “She arrived on her own, sir. Apparently she climbed through a bedroom window.”

  Killian staggered to a stop and spun around. “What?”

  Frank straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands in front of him. “The team had secured the house. Miss Romero requested to speak to you, but our communication hadn’t yet gone up and she took matters into her own hands … sir.”

  Killian dropped his face into his hand and slowly shook his head. “That woman is going to be the end of me,” he muttered to himself.

  “What would you like me to do, sir?”

  “Fire them.” He lowered his hand. “If they can’t watch over a single woman when there are two of them, I have no use for them.”

  Frank blinked. “Sir?”

  “Bring them to me,” he decided instead. “I want to hear what happened from them.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Killian leaned against the side of his desk as all strength in his limbs disintegrated, leaving him unnaturally exhausted and weak. But he stayed steady when he spoke again.

  “The men we lost, have the families been contacted?”

  Frank nodded. “Yes sir. The funerals have been arranged.”

  “Make sure the families are taken care of and bring me their numbers. I’d like to speak with them personally.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Forcing himself up, Killian moved to his chair and lowered himself into it. “This can’t go unaddressed, Frank. Not just for my men, but because this is my home. They came into my home!” He shook his head. “No, this needs to be handled.”

  “Yes sir.” Frank moved deeper into the room, phone in hand. “What would you like to do?”

  “Bring me John and Tyson first,” he instructed. “Get Jake and Melton to stay with Juliette. Then set up a meeting with Kinch.”

  Frank inclined his head, his fingers already moving over the keys on his phone. Finally, he straightened and lifted his head.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  He stared at the top of his desk. The underground cleanup crew had scrubbed the place clean of bodies and blood. It didn’t even look like anyone had been shot, never mind killed in the middle of his office.

  The knowledge that he was responsible for the death of another person never sat well with him. He wasn’t a psychopath. But there wasn’t any remorse either. Smith died by the hands of his own foolish stupidity and that was on him; although, the fault wasn’t entirely with Smith,
if Killian was honest with himself. He was just as much to blame.

  His first mistake was holding the meeting with men he wasn’t familiar with in his own home. But since Killian didn’t have an office and hadn’t wanted to leave the mountain of paperwork, he had figured it would kill two birds with one stone. His second mistake was turning his back.

  Dan Smith, as he’d introduced himself was a semi known gambler with deep pockets. As owner of several of the cities more high end and well known gaming arenas, Killian had heard of the man in passing only. From their brief phone conversation the day before, Killian had been under the impression that Smith had a concern with one of Killian’s fighting rings. He had agreed to meet the man to discuss it. At no time had he ever imagined that Smith would arrive with six heavily armed men and a head full of steam.

  He’d stalked into Killian’s office a full three hours ahead of their scheduled meet. It was a sign of control Killian recognized and appreciated about as much as getting kicked in the crotch. But he had tolerated it, had even offered the man a seat and a drink, both which were refused.

  Smith had reminded Killian of an old, lumpy oil tycoon. He’d stood before Killian in his cowboy boots, plaid top, and ten gallon hat that matched his ten gallon gut. He’d even had a thick mustache the same steel wool gray as his slicked back hair. He’d stared across the ten feet to where Killian stood patiently waiting.

  “Mr. McClary,” he’d drawled lazily. “Let me just say what an honor this is. I am a big patron of your many establishments.”

  Killian had inclined his head politely. “Thank you. You said on the phone this matter was urgent.”

  “Yes, of course.” He’d shifted his weight like his boots were hurting his feet. “I was frequenting your Man O Steel tournament the night before. It’s one of my favorites.” He’d offered Killian a grin like they shared a secret joke. “Nothing like two men boxing it out to get the blood pumping.”