Darkness Savage (The Dark Cycle Book 3)

by Rachel A. Marks

  “Well, we need you, Tray,” Kara says. “Things are changing, Sid is . . . he’s sick, and—” her voice cracks, stopping her words.

  Tray’s annoyed frown becomes concerned. He doesn’t reach out and touch her, but I can see his need to comfort her exuding from every muscle in his body.

  “Sid is sick,” I continue for her. “It’s a long story, but we need you to help us with something. We need everyone together.”

  “No,” he says. His voice is full of assurance, but his energy is conflicted. “I need to watch out for my little sister.”

  Hearing him say that, those words I’ve heard come out of my own mouth a hundred thousand times, my head spins. Pain rolls over me. And I get this crazy urge to tell him never mind. To tell him he’s better off ignoring it all, better off in ignorance. Everyone he loves will be better off if he stays away from me and my fate.

  “What about Jax?” Kara asks with a pleading edge. “He needs you, too, Tray.”

  “I get it,” I say quietly, not able to look at him now. I’d tell him he could bring his sister, but . . . no. No more innocent lives need to be put in harm’s way.

  Kara grips my leg in silent panic. “We need everyone together, Aidan. It’s important.”

  “Maybe we could do the bonding spell with less.” I try to settle into the idea.

  Kara gives me an annoyed look. “But Eric was clear, we need at least eight—”

  Tray interrupts her. “What spell?”

  “A spell to bond all our powers to Aidan,” Kara says.

  Tray’s expression fills with disbelief. “Don’t you have enough power, man? Your body healed in, like, five fucking minutes. And you run like you’re not even human. You need more juice than that?”

  “No, I have too much,” I say. “Too much power. This would be me sharing with you, with the others, not the other way around.”

  His mouth opens a little in stunned silence.

  “Things are a mess, Tray,” Kara says. “We really need you to help us.”

  He ignores her, still staring a hole through me. “You would seriously share that force factory in your skin?”

  “I have to, or people will get hurt.”

  He seems to chew on that for a second, like he’s reconsidering, but then his shoulders set in determination. “I can’t leave. They need me.” He stands and walks over to the door, opening it. “But thanks for the effort to recruit me.” The demon on the shelf scuttles to the edge and peers down at him, only a foot above his head.

  Kara stands. “But there has to be something—”

  Tray shakes his head. The demon’s body bobs up and down, and I realize it’s shifting the air around Tray, making him feel some emotion that’s not his own.

  “Maybe we can help,” I say, standing and walking around the coffee table. The guy’s carrying a ton of stuff, and I know that weight. “Like, with your mom.” Finger has his ways with people, maybe he can help get the need for drugs out of her. Raul was much better after only a few days in the house. Of course, I think the demon I killed was probably a big part of his addiction.

  “I don’t want your help.” His eyes move from me to Kara; the loss in them is heavy.

  “Well, you know where to find us,” I say.

  Then I feel clearly what emotions the demon on the shelf is oozing out into the air: jealousy and bitterness.

  There’s the answer to why I wanted to punch Tray a few minutes ago. I reach up, grab the pointy thing off the shelf, and crush its tiny bones in my fist. My power sparks in a flash of light, consuming the little bastard in three seconds, then sinks away as quickly as it came.

  I wipe the ash off on my pants. “I can help,” I say. “More than you might think.”

  Tray glances to the shelf and back at me. “What was that?”

  “A demon. Small, but it seemed to be fucking with you.”

  “I felt it,” he says under his breath. “Or I guess I should say, I felt when it was gone.” Then he motions to his neck. “Was it the same thing that made your new scars out on the courts earlier?”

  “No, that was a different one, but it’s dead, too.” I think it was watching Tray, probably because he’s a Light. I suddenly wish that I could help him more, but it doesn’t seem like he’ll let me.

  I lift my hand and run my fingers over the new scars on my neck and cheek. “There was one watching you out there from the fence when we came in. I’m not positive if it was keyed on you or the other guy, but it’s what got Jeremiah to pull the knife. It whispered in his ear.”

  “And you saw all that?”

  “Yeah,” I look around the apartment again. “It smells like there’s more. Do you want me to check?” I motion to the hall that leads to the bedrooms.

  “No!” he says a little too forcefully. “Just stay out of it.”

  Kara comes from behind me. “Is she back there, your mom?”

  He deflates a little. “Yeah. But she’s baked. Not a good time to poke the bear. I’m hoping she’ll sleep it off so she doesn’t miss work again tonight. Selena’s at the neighbor’s until dinner, so she’s finally getting rest.”

  “You need to let us help, Tray,” Kara says, sounding miserable. “Tell him, Aidan.”

  “No,” he says, again quietly, resigned. “Just let me go.”

  He’s not giving in. Not now anyway.

  “Kara will text you my number,” I say, resting a hand on the small of her back to encourage her out the door. “I can come anytime and check things out more, if you change your mind.”

  Tray looks away from Kara and gives me a jerk of his chin in answer.

  He won’t take help, he won’t leave his mom and sister just to help us, and I don’t blame him. He’s stuck. When the door closes behind us and he’s still in that apartment, that urgency fills me again to save him. It seems twisted, because I can’t do a thing about it. The guy’s got free will. It’s not like I can kidnap him. Not to mention, I totally get it. Damn, do I get it.

  So we walk away. From the lingering demons, the ghost in the hallway, and the guy who might make fixing things impossible if he doesn’t surrender to his fate soon.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Rebecca

  Samantha’s in the bathroom getting ready for bed when my phone pings with a text from Aidan.

  How are things? U ok?

  I read it over and wonder why it’s Aidan checking in on me, not Connor. I texted Connor this morning and haven’t gotten a response. Did Aidan tell him about the witch thing before I could, and scare him off? Connor did keep telling me I shouldn’t go see Miss Mae; maybe he’s mad that I didn’t listen.

  I just don’t know why he wouldn’t at least let me explain myself. Unless he doesn’t want to be with a girl who’s a witch. Unless . . . he’s disgusted by me now.

  Panic and shame rise in me, biting at the inside of my skin. I open another text thread to Connor and type, I really need to talk to you. Please call me.

  I send that and go back to the Aidan thread and answer, No troubles. Thanks for putting up the protections on the house. Looks like they’re working. I consider telling him about the image I drew, the pentagram thing, maybe text him the picture I took. But the half-burnt paper is crumpled up in my waste basket now, and nothing bad has happened, so I’d sort of be making a huge deal out of a nothing burger. Aidan has enough on his shoulders as it is.

  I really wish Connor would call or text me back.

  I set my phone down and stare at the small metal trash can by my desk. I should probably take it to the outside trash bin; it’s freaking me out having it in the room. But then I feel like I’m totally overreacting. So, instead, I pick up the can, set it on my closet floor, and shut the door.

  Since Samantha came over to spend the night, I recruited her to help me investigate my new problem of witchiness. She barely blinked when I told her why I went to Miss Mae and what the woman said; she just warned me that I better not turn goth on her, because “Black totally washes out your complexio
n, Em.” We’ve spent the last couple hours searching witch stuff on the Internet—maybe that’s what’s making me feel so antsy. We looked up everything from Wicca to The Wizard of Oz. I now know more about the Salem trials than I ever wanted to. And according to a movie, The Craft, most witches wear a lot of eyeliner—Samantha went into a style lecture about ten minutes into watching, and then proceeded to explain which color season each of the girls in the coven was. Not helpful but entertaining.

  She comes out of the bathroom, garbed in her pink jammies, and plops down on my bed, looking chipper. “Okay, so what’s next on the Project Witchy list? Ouija board? Chanting? My neighbor is an old hippie, I think he has chickens if we need to kill one for a spell.”

  “Wow.” I laugh. “How about we just watch another movie—one with more kissing and less creepy.”

  She seems happy with the idea, so we settle into bed with my laptop and watch a funny romance flick. Eventually we’re being normal us again, talking about class schedules, what senior year might be like, gossiping about teachers, and planning our very last bye-bye summer, princess pizza party.

  As our easy conversation fades, my mind goes back to the reality of my new twist of fate and how little I know about what it all means. I can’t stop thinking about the strange and terrifying pictures and videos from Samantha’s research help; the image of a hunched old crone, with a warty nose and claws for hands, who cooked children in ovens; beautiful raven-haired goddesses who cursed men with longing, driving them insane . . .

  None of what we found was encouraging.

  One image was especially haunting, though. And as I sink into sleep, I feel like it’s rising in front of me, coming alive. As if the scent of wood smoke truly fills my head, the crackling of flames filling my ears like wind. And the screams . . . the screams of the woman. Her young form is tied to the pyre, her hair flying up like wings.

  The hot flames lick over her body, swallowing her whole.

  The smell of smoke wakes me. Samantha is lying in bed, facing the window and sleeping soundly. I sniff the air, wondering if there’s a brushfire; maybe it’s Santa Ana winds come early? But as I roll over, the smell gets stronger, closer, and settles in my lungs, forcing a cough.

  I sit up and look around my room, but it’s dark, too dark to see anything. I reach over to the bedside lamp and turn it on—

  Smoke. The room is full of it, muddying my eyesight to the surroundings.

  I cough more and wave my hand in front of my face, my muscles starting to panic. Where’s it coming from? I can’t see anything.

  “Sam.” I shake her shoulder but she doesn’t move.

  Why didn’t the alarm go off this time? I’ve never seen so much smoke.

  I roll out of bed, the coughing uncontrollable now. “Sam, wake up.” But my voice is a scratch at the air, barely there. I lower myself to the floor, where the smoke is thinner, and feel around for my door. A wave of dizziness hits me as I crawl along the wall. My cough turns sharp. I feel my desk, but I’m all turned around now. I try to yell for Samantha again but nothing comes from my throat.

  My hand hits metal and relief fills me—the doorknob! I pull it down, opening the door, praying for clean air. But something’s wrong, the smoke follows me, envelops me, like it’s alive. It wraps me in its arms, and in the back of my mind I feel like I’m moving, being dragged across the floor until my shoulder hits a wall.

  The room spins, my head aches, my chest . . . everything—wait, I’m not in the hall outside my room. I’m in my closet. The shelves are against my back. I grope for the exit and hit metal—the trash can.

  And suddenly, I know. I feel cool metal against my palm and I know. This is the drawing, the spell. It’s alive again, aware. And it’s all my fault—

  I jerk forward, sitting up in bed with a gasp, pulling a gulp of fresh air into my lungs. I pant, heaving, breathing in and out between rattling coughs and feeling the sting in my lungs as I blink at my surroundings.

  I’m back in my bed.

  There’s no smoke. None. The room is tinged blue from the moonlight coming in through the window, and the air is clean.

  I turn and see Samantha sleeping beside me, in the exact same spot as she was a second ago. Was it a dream? All the pictures of burning witches must’ve gotten to me.

  I cough again and pull back the covers, slide out of bed, and head for the closet. Before I open the door, I wait a few seconds, trying to see if I smell anything, any smoke. In my dream something in here was on fire only seconds ago—it felt so real.

  I swing the door open and flip on the light, looking down at the trash can. Which is full of charred paper. Black, burnt charcoal paper. Everything inside it has been devoured. And there’s a grey ring of ash around the rim of the can.

  A chill works through me, and I can only think of one thing to do. I grab the trash can and walk out of the room with it held in front of me, head down the stairs, and out the French doors in the dining room that lead to the backyard. My bare feet hardly feel the cold from the dew-covered grass as I make my way to the edge of the yard where the hill begins to drop off. I step onto a rock, lift the can over the fence, and toss it as far as I can. It hits the ground with a small sound and bounces, the moonlight reflecting off the metallic surface. I watch the glint of it until it disappears into a gully.

  And then I keep staring, like it might crawl back out and find me.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Hunger

  It watches. The demon Hunger watches the Rebecca girl’s house. Something must be decided about her, a way in, a way to rip and tear out Hope from the root.

  No shadows will lend aid against the will of this new queen, Ava bird. Hunger will have to remedy past failures alone.

  Something rumbles underfoot. Power breaking free, seeking to be heard.

  Hunger looks around. The demon Hunger looks around the lands nearby and senses nothing to answer the interruption in the pattern. But then a ripple of green mist emanates from the second floor of the house being watched.

  There, the power is coming from there, the Rebecca girl’s window.

  What could she have possibly challenged? She seems unaware of her own abilities.

  The demon sniffs at the air. The demon Hunger sniffs at the air, finding many things in the houses along the road: lust, despair, joy, and selfish ambition. But nothing smells of casting.

  Hello, a cheerful young voice says.

  The demon turns. The demon Hunger turns and looks down at the white-haired female child. She sits on the grass with her legs crossed, looking up at the same window where the green mist still slides against the air.

  The demon glares at the child, smells the energy. The scent of silver fills the head. Mingled with the smell of a Nephilim.

  A growl emerges from deep in the chest, Ava witch.

  Yes, it’s me. And you’re Mr. Hunger. I hear you’re not a fan.

  The demon lunges to grab the witch by the root of her hair and rip her spine from her body. But claws grab only air. The witch now stands on the other side.

  You’re very predictable, aren’t you? she asks.

  Hunger glowers. You broke the pattern, you must be destroyed to reform the Balance.

  Well, your master doesn’t agree. She tips her head in a thoughtful manner. I kinda see where you’re coming from, though. I’ve made a bit of a mess in the ranks. I get it. And Balance is really important, I know. What would you say if I told you that that’s what I’m trying to do, too?

  Hunger stares at the child witch in disdain, not accepting the lie.

  I am! she says. I just have a small problem. It seems like you have the same one. She points at the house where the Rebecca girl is. Maybe we can team up?

  Hunger releases a growl.

  I know, I cast you out before, but obviously you had the power to come back. And I knew that. I just had to put on a good show, right?

  Hunger was sent to destroy the fire-haired witch by the master. Though, the desire to do so comes from
the deep urge to taste her flesh.

  What if I told you that I could help with that, once you’ve helped me?

  Hunger looks up at the window again. The green mist is now dissipated. How would the usurper child possibly be of any help to Hunger? Malice laces the thought, but there is a twinge of relenting.

  Well, for one, you felt that spark just now, right? She has no idea what she’s jumped into. Which leaves her weak.

  And I will influence the father to stretch his own neck, Hunger says, leaving her completely alone. This will cause her to wish her own life over, and—

  You’re missing the point, meathead. The small witch releases a sigh of impatience. She’s weak, so I can easily get what I want from her if I can find the right demon to trap her. She motions to Hunger. I can get you over there, on her side of the Veil. I can give you flesh to wear and you’ll be able to do whatever it is you want to her, as long as you let me have her for a little while.

  Hunger’s chest sparks with confusion and sudden elation. So close, the witch would allow him through to get close, where flesh is strongest? Where the demon could touch her. Feel her skin chill under the touch of claws, and smell her hair—

  Okay, perv, the Ava bird says. Slow down that weirdo movie in your head. Yes, I can make you corporeal, but there’s something you have to do for me in return.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Aidan

  Another message appears from Ava as the sun sets over the city. I’m back in the warehouse apartment, trying to distract myself with some research on teleporting, trying not to think about how much I want to bang my head into the wall. I turned on the TV for background noise, but that only lasted about ten minutes because I was a topic of conversation on the evening talk show.

  I feel a crazy relief as the letters burn themselves into the note on the coffee table. I can’t understand why I’m relieved, though. Especially after I read my new task.

  You are so very clever, finding witches by accident, saving damsels, and sending me messages. You’re ruining the fun when you win. :P It doesn’t matter, there’s no way you’ll guess what’s next. Hint: The past is coming back to haunt someone you love.