Darkness Savage (The Dark Cycle Book 3)

by Rachel A. Marks

  The raven stretches out a wing to scratch an itch underneath it, and the demon lifts a hind claw to scratch behind its floppy pointed ear at the same time. The creature’s probably watching someone; it must be a scout of some kind.

  Kara slows her pace beside me. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a demon hanging out with that bird.”

  She looks at the raven behind us on the fence. “What’s it doing?”

  “Just . . . waiting.” But then the demon blinks its overlarge eyes, zeroing in on a spot on the other side of the fence to its right, to where two young African-American men are playing basketball. A round guy is chasing a more nimble one toward the far basket. The ball is swiftly bounced through legs and then tossed as the rounder guy flails his arms and tries to guard the basket. Giving a valiant effort, but failing.

  The bird flies away, and the demon scuttles down the chain-link, making its way to the two guys, obviously here for one of them.

  “Tray,” Kara says to herself, grabbing the fence. Then she yells, “Tray!”

  The swifter boy turns as the ball is coming at him, and it hits him in the head. The rounder boy laughs and points, but the other guy just rubs his head and squints over at us. He’s like a tall Jax, with that same stubborn chin, but more muscular, harder around the edges. Recognition fills his eyes when he spots Kara. He waves at us as the demon moves past.

  It’s heading toward a young man in the shadows who’s watching Tray with sharp eyes. The demon comes close to the guy and seems to whisper something, making the young man’s body tense. And that’s when I see the glint of silver in his fist. A knife.

  Oh, shit.

  Urgency sparks in my gut with a sudden jolt. That familiar rage my power brings fills my insides as the armed guy stands and begins walking straight for Tray.

  Without thinking, I grab the fence and climb, hoisting myself up and over the top, jumping down to the asphalt on the other side, all in seconds. And then I’m sprinting toward them, watching the demon claw its way up the attacking boy’s leg and torso, then latch on to his neck with sharp talons, and continue to whisper in his ear. But I’m still more than a dozen yards away.

  I hear Kara running behind me, but I stay keyed on the demon, even as Tray turns toward his attacker, his face filling with confusion.

  I’m five yards away, then two, and just as the knife comes at Tray’s side where he can’t see it, I’m on the guy wielding it, tackling him to the ground. My knees and elbows grind against the broken asphalt as we skid. My fist meets the guy’s gut just as the blade comes up. But even as the sharp edge slides down again, swiping a hot slice across my arm, the demon that was on the guy’s shoulder tumbles right onto mine.

  Instinctively it digs its claws into my cheek and neck to stop its fall. Hitting bone and slicing tendon.

  I cry out in agony and stumble back.

  My power bursts from me with the pain, and I fall to my knees, gripping the thing by the neck and plucking it off me like it’s a tick. It shrivels and turns to ash before I can even focus my energy on it.

  The agony from the tears in my neck and face ebbs a little. I try to catch my breath, find my center. My head spins. My mark burns. And I know the guy cut me deep, because my arm doesn’t want to move right. I hear feet scrambling on the pavement, see a blurry figure running away, and then Kara’s at my side, saying my name, putting something that smells like cigarette smoke to my face, my neck, as she tries to stop the bleeding.

  Panic hits me at her touch. No, no, she can’t be close to me!

  I shove her away as the power still courses through me in bursts, making the rage linger, making the fury, the murder, pulse in my veins.

  I hear her grunt and she’s gone.

  “Hey, careful,” someone says.

  I blink up and see the guy I was trying to save. But he’s bare chested now, and he’s helping Kara off the ground, putting her behind him, like he’s shielding her. From me.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Aidan

  Tray takes a wadded up T-shirt from Kara’s hand and throws it on the ground in front of me. A weird combination of annoyance and fear paints his face. Why is he looking at me like that?

  “Kara, you need to get out of here,” he says in a low voice, while he continues to watch me intently. “Go to Aunt Mae’s.”

  Kara shoves his protective arm aside. “Lay off. He’s hurt, Tray.” She kneels in front of me and picks up the bloody T-shirt. She holds it to my neck again.

  “Sorry I pushed you,” I whisper, my voice scratchy and weak. The power is only a buzz in my spine and arm now, but there’s an ache left in my chest, in my bones. My skin feels stretched out from the sudden burst of it all. I’m robbed of energy. I’m not sure why or how, but the force of my power has to be getting stronger, even stronger than it was in the ER. It physically hurts right now inside me, as if the explosion of power hit me just as hard as it hit the demon.

  But my power wanted to help Tray—man, did it ever. It was like I couldn’t control myself, like I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t just have to save Tray, I needed to get my hands on anything that would want to hurt him. I’m guessing that’s a bit of clue; the guy must be a Light.

  If I did feel any form of protection over him it’s gone now, though, with the way he’s looking at me. And he certainly doesn’t seem to have any mutual connection with me at all.

  “I’m fine,” Kara says to me. “You know I’m tough.” Then she turns to Tray as she keeps the shirt held to my wounds. “We need to help him up. It’s going to be hard for him to walk for a minute.”

  But Tray doesn’t move. “Kara, what the fuck is going on?” He’s looking around, cautiously, his eyes sharp. He’s containing his fear but I can smell it.

  The court’s empty now; the knife guy is gone, and the guy Tray was playing basketball with seems to have run off, too. I sense eyes watching from far away, though.

  “Apparently Aidan was saving your life,” Kara says, a bite in her voice.

  Tray’s frown gets deeper. “This is Aidan?” He’s looking me over, gaze hovering on my mark.

  “You’re welcome,” she mutters.

  Tray doesn’t respond at first; he just studies me, one predator wary of another.

  Kara brings up my hand to hold the shirt to my face, then huddles under my limp arm and tries to hoist me to my feet. But I’m not ready yet.

  “I’m okay, Kara,” I say. “Just give me a second.”

  She stands and hovers over me protectively before turning to Tray. “Why would that guy want to attack you?”

  “Who, Jeremiah? That guy’s just a punk, he’s always freaking out about something. He’s harmless.”

  “How blind are you?” she growls.

  “Are you seriously going to chew my ear off while the guy who was just lit up like the fucking Fourth of July bleeds to death?” He motions to me casually, like he doesn’t actually care that I might lose too much blood.

  “That light was his power. And he’s healing now.” She turns back to me, her voice becoming nervous. “You’re healing, right?”

  I look down at my limp arm and see the skin almost scabbing over. I’m guessing my neck and cheek are about the same. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  Tray’s frown comes back. “What do you mean, ‘healing now’? Like, right now?”

  “He heals quick,” she says.

  “Well, great for him. In the meantime, the whole fucking neighborhood saw his crazy ass tackle Jeremiah like a psycho.”

  “Excuse me?” I force my limbs to move, not wanting to look weak anymore. “That piece of shit had a knife and a fucking demon on his neck. He was ready to stick you a few dozen times, I’m guessing. We’d have been cleaning up your blood instead of mine.”

  “A demon?” Tray scoffs, but he looks over at Kara and asks, “Is your boyfriend sane?”

  “Did you hear the part about the knife, Tray?” Kara says, sounding tired.

  I finish getting to my feet and br
ush off my jeans, trying not to show how little balance I have. “Let it go, Kara. I think I’ve seen enough.” We’ll have to reevaluate the spell. Maybe there’s another way. Maybe having fewer Lights won’t matter. I have to hope so. My instinct is telling me that this guy wouldn’t follow me anywhere. Definitely not into Armageddon.

  Kara groans and grabs the bloody shirt from me, shoving it into Tray’s chest. “See what you’ve done. Why are you always such a clueless jerk?”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Listen, I appreciate the help with Jeremiah, but you need to give me a beat to switch gears. All I saw was this guy running at me full throttle before he basically burst into flames, bled from his face—where no one even touched him—and then shoved you into the dirt. Not to mention the fact that the guy’s arm is fucking—shit, are you seeing this?” He points at my cut as it becomes a scar.

  “Yeah, I see,” she says, absently. She folds her arms across her chest and starts to pace, her body tense. “And so does everyone else. Can we take this somewhere else, please?”

  I’m feeling exposed, too. I’ve spent too long in the open. I just can’t seem to make myself care, though, with the pain pulsing in my body right now.

  Tray doesn’t answer, he just watches me intently, still trying to play it cool. “Jax mentioned you were full of juice, but shit, this is nuts.”

  “We need to have this talk somewhere else,” Kara says through her teeth. “Let’s go.” She starts walking away, toward the opening in the fence that leads to the street.

  “Hold on.” Tray grabs her by the arm. “What talk?”

  “Hey!” I bark. “Get your hand off her.” I step into his space. He’s a little taller than me, but even though I have nothing left in me to fight with, I can still attempt to kick his ass.

  He stares through me, the hard edge in his eyes impossible to read.

  Kara looks back and forth between the two of us, then pauses on Tray. She touches his hand, which is still gripping her arm. “Tray, please.”

  He stops glaring at me and releases her slowly, like he’s surrendering territory. “We can talk at my place.”

  Then he walks away, apparently unconcerned with whether we follow him or not. Kara and I share a look before we wordlessly surrender to the moment and start walking, keeping a few yards behind. I’m unsure what Kara’s thinking, but it’s clear what she’s feeling; she’s practically coming out of her skin. I brush a strand of hair from her shoulder as we walk, and when she glances at me, I try and give her a reassuring look. “Never a dull moment,” I say dryly.

  She smirks as we catch up and follow Tray into one of the apartment buildings. We head up the stairs to the second floor and down a hall. The smells assault me in here: sorrow, desperation, and piss. There’s a ghost hanging out in a shadow beside the broken fire-extinguisher box at the end of the hallway, a bullet hole in his head, bloodstains on his shirt and hands. He eyes me, and I wonder if he sees something on me. A threat? The kindred spirit of a killer? I’ve never had a ghost stare me down before.

  Tray stops at a door to the left, unlocks it. He opens it a crack, but before going in he holds up a hand for us to wait. Then he slips inside, and it’s a full minute before he comes back out and motions for us to follow.

  By then I’m so relieved to get away from the glaring ghost that I forget to lock my walls up tighter. I really didn’t want to feel anything personal from this guy’s life, but before I can close my insides off, I get a sudden hit of several things clamoring at the air: anger and despair, a recent argument. And, of course, demon energy. I immediately spot a tiny one, about five inches tall, pacing on a shelf above the TV that’s by the door. I feel more of them around the space, but I ignore it, like I ignore the mess of drug paraphernalia and spilled Cheetos and Diet Coke on the coffee table. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink, and there’s a box of crayons tipped over next to an open Disney Princess coloring book.

  “You have a little sister?” I ask.

  His eyes skip to mine with suspicion. “Why is that your business?”

  “Her name’s Selena,” Kara says, ignoring his attitude. “She’s, what? Five now, right, Tray?” She looks down at the crack pipe on the coffee table. Her brow pinches, and her voice turns soft when she says, “You should’ve told me it was getting bad again.”

  Tray walks away, grabs a plastic trash can and comes back, swiping everything on the table into it, including a TV remote. “She’s just having a bad month.”

  It’s silent then, no one sure what to say. Kara settles onto the couch and I sit next to her.

  Tray moves a few more things around like he’s trying to do a quick clean, then he plops in the chair with a loud groan. “So what’s with all the dramatic shit? You just wanting to check out how the other half lives?”

  I decide to be brutally honest. “No. I wanted to see if you were one of us.” I motion between Kara and me.

  His look turns even more stony. “One of . . . ?”

  “Your name has come up,” I say. “And you helped Rebecca the other night?”

  Kara tenses beside me.

  He tips his head. “The redhead? Yeah, I helped her and her friend get home. So what?”

  “You saw a demon.”

  “Wait.” Kara shifts to face me. “What—what demon?”

  Tray turns smug. “So, the relationship between you two is going well, I see. You’ve obviously got great communication skills.”

  I explain to Kara. “A demon attacked Rebecca the other night when she came here to see Miss Mae.”

  She blinks at me. “Rebecca came to see Miss Mae again on her own? Seriously? Wow, I’m so proud of her.”

  I won’t mention that it was because Rebecca was desperate. And I won’t say what Miss Mae said to her, or how I saw Rebecca’s energy, what she might be. Kara does need to know all that. Just not right now; it’s none of Tray’s business.

  He leans back in his chair and puts his feet up on the coffee table, next to a dried soda puddle. “There was some freaky dog. You’re telling me that was a demon?” He doesn’t look convinced.

  “Come on, Tray,” Kara says. “You know what Jax is at the house for.”

  “Oh, you mean the playhouse where you guys con unsuspecting morons into thinking they have ghosts in their attic?”

  And there’s the family asshat gene.

  I have no idea why I’m even here. The more time that passes in his space, the less I want this guy to join us. And how in the hell did Kara put up with him, let alone like the guy? Maybe kiss him—

  A vision of them wrapped in each other’s arms fills my head in vivid detail. Kara’s breath catching as he grips her hips, as he kisses her neck, her shoulder.

  That’s my shoulder.

  I seriously want to kill him right now.

  Okay, so apparently I’m jealous. Very. Jealous. But it’s not like the guy actually did something I should be so pissed about.

  I glance around for spirits that might be tossing shit my way, and grip my knees. Kara places her hand over mine, brushing my knuckles with her palm in a soothing way, like she can feel me losing it. Because she probably can. People in Orange County can probably feel me losing it.

  Tray’s eyes move to our fingers weaving together, and his jaw clenches.

  “So, I came to see if you have any weird talents,” I say, needing to reach the point and get the hell out of here. “Word is, Sid asked you to join the house, so I’m guessing he thought you had certain abilities.”

  Tray’s fear simmers in the air, but his expression doesn’t change. “You should go sell crazy someplace else. We’re all stocked up here.”

  A small laugh comes from Kara, breaking the tension a little, then she glances at me and explains, “It’s from a movie. Jack Nicholson.”

  “Our favorite movie,” Tray corrects.

  She turns back to him and smiles, revealing her dimple. “Good times. Noodle salad.”

  He winks at her. Winks.

  “Well,
this is all fascinating,” I say, leaning forward on my knees. They have a favorite movie. They have inside jokes. Wonderful. “I’d still like to know the answer to my question.”

  Tray’s smile sinks back into a smirk. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Not usually.”

  He releases a sigh, and I can feel his fear again. What the hell is it he can do?

  “I can tell you’re afraid,” I say.

  Kara scoots down the couch, closer to him. “It’s all right, Tray. If anyone gets it, Aidan does.”

  “It’s not like you have a right to know,” he says. He clears his throat. “But yeah, I have similar shit abilities to Jax. They’re not exactly useful. All I can tell you is, I hear things. In the ground, or the trees, rocks and stuff.”

  That’s . . . weird. “Things—what kind of things?”

  “It’s voices, sort of. I mostly ignore it. It’s not like they tell me anything I understand. It’s way beyond a different language, more like animal sounds. That’s why I never joined your weirdo con club. I’m better off ignoring this shit.” But a red spark lights his eye at the last part. Either he’s lying to me or himself.

  “Voices.” I repeat, trying to wrap my head around the idea. “In the ground.”

  It’s such a strange gift. He’s right, how is that even helpful? Something about his ability seems to be freaking him out, though. He’s found a pen in his chair and is fidgeting with it, and his scent is only bigger now that the secret’s out. I imagine hearing voices probably doesn’t go over well on a daily basis. Some of my irritation and dislike of the guy turns to sympathy.

  I know what it’s like to feel crazy, to be seen as a freak. I get why he hides it. And maybe a small part of me—a very small part of me—gets why he’s a bit of an ass.