by Jaime Rush
Hell, she made no sense to him.
Now, Lachlan looked at the fairgrounds and felt a stirring in his soul. Like a fire in the dark cave inside him. Did he sense the danger because it was there, or because he felt purpose for the first time in so long? He’d watched his mother die, knowing he inflicted the fatal wound. He had to leave his father locked in the cellar of a burning house. If Magnus was in trouble, he could do something. This time he could help.
He opened the door and stepped out, his muscles still groaning in pain. The air was whip-cold, becoming puffs of fog whenever he breathed. He pulled out his sword, in its sheath, and hooked it inside his long coat. The sword had been in his mother’s family for hundreds of years. She’d given well-made replicas to him and Magnus when they each turned sixteen in a ceremony reminiscent of those that Scottish boys were honored with when they were deemed to be men. They were given a dirk under an oath that incurred supernatural penalties should it be broken. He and Magnus had been using the replicas in their matches ever since, preparing in case their father’s enemy found them. Once in a while they used the antique swords.
Voices floated to him, echoing off the carnival equipment, winding and twining around the closed booths and over the stamped-down dirt. His hearing was keen, and he followed them.
“It has nothing to do with you having a psychotic brother,” a voice said. Her voice. There was an edge to it, one he’d heard before.
“It’s a wonder you didn’t call the cops on him. You should have, you know.” Magnus.
“No.” The word shot out. “Look, you obviously have family issues. I have issues, too. I think it’s better if we go our separate ways before things get complicated.”
Lachlan spotted them on the other side of the tall fence at the corner of one of the booths, facing each other.
“Is that why you know how to fight? Lachlan said you kicked his arse. Are you in trouble?”
“I—”
A sound had them both turning to the side. Lachlan couldn’t see who was there, but her expression froze in fear. She flicked a glance to Magnus. “Leave. Now.” She said it the same way she’d pleaded with Lachlan to leave, but now she was terrified.
Something was wrong. No way would Magnus leave her there. His brother’s body stiffened, shoulders broadened, and he took a step closer to Jessie as he faced the man who walked up to them.
The man was in his forties, brown hair, rough features, a big guy with blunt fingers. Lachlan always checked out an opponent’s hands. No weapon that he could see, which meant nothing. He stepped to the fence and started climbing.
“Magnus, leave!” Jessie said in a strained voice, but she faced the man in the fight mode Lachlan had seen earlier.
“The hell I am. Who is this?”
The man’s smile chilled Lachlan. “I’m her father.”
“You are not my father,” she hissed.
Lachlan dropped to the ground and started heading over. Trouble. He knew it, felt it. That’s all he could think before it happened.
The man became smoky black and then transformed into a shape that resembled a huge wolf.
What the hell?
Lachlan pulled his sword as he ran, the familiar sound of metal sliding against metal.
The thing lunged at Magnus, knocking him to the ground. Lachlan screamed as he charged, raising his sword, wanting to draw the creature’s attention to him. Jessie threw herself at the wolf, clinging to his back with her arm in a choke hold around his neck. He shook her off, sending her rolling across the ground. The wolf, made of a blackness like thick oil, looked at Lachlan as he closed the distance. He raised a massive paw and raked it across Magnus’s throat.
“Noooo!” The word tore from Lachlan’s chest.
This was what he’d seen in the vision, only it wasn’t the girl who had done it. This creature . . .
Jessie screamed in agony as she jumped to her feet. She shifted to black fog, too, though she didn’t take a definite shape. She twisted, reared back, and slammed into the wolf, knocking him back from Magnus. Protecting him.
Lachlan felt as though he were slogging through mud, like a nightmare where you run and run and never get anywhere. The dark shapes fought, but the wolf turned to him when he finally reached them.
Lachlan swung the sword in an arc, slicing through the thing. Bits sheared off. The wolf reared back, grabbing at his sword. Lachlan jerked it out of his reach, then rammed the blade forward. Could he even kill this man-wolf?
Jessie was human again, her terrified face glancing at Magnus before focusing on the two combatants. “Stop! He’ll kill you!”
Lachlan felt something move through him, like an electrical current. The edges of his vision darkened, closing in. No, not now. This had happened before, on the battlefield of Culloden. He held on, focusing on the ridges in the handle of the sword, the cold air searing his lungs as he sucked in breath after breath. He held onto reality, and the darkness moved away.
He sliced, parried, cut, and all the while felt a strength, an energy moving through his arms, his whole body. It was . . . helping him. Making him stronger.
He grasped the sword handle with both hands, readying for a thrust, and saw—no imagined—the imprint of two hands over his. Not his hands, these were shorter, thicker, scarred and bloodied. Lightning sparked from those fingers and along the blade, arcing into the wolf’s chest. With a horrific sound of pain, the wolf became a long stream of smoke and retreated.
Lachlan stared at the place where it had been, then at his hands, which now looked normal, and then at her. She wore the same shocked expression as he no doubt did.
“What the bloody hell?” Too much to ask, no time. He ran to Magnus, setting the sword down and kneeling beside him. His brother’s eyes were open and unfocused but filled with shock and pain.
“Maggie! You’d better not die, you son of a bitch!”
Jessie dropped down on the other side of Magnus, gasping at the sight of the gaping slashes across his throat. Blood gushed out in a steady stream and he was having trouble breathing.
The smoky beast was solid enough to inflict this kind of injury. Lachlan jammed his hands beneath his brother’s body, about to lift him. Too heavy.
“He won’t make it,” she said on a hoarse breath. “He’s lost too much blood already.”
“No, he will make it.” He pulled off his coat, tossed it to the ground, then tore off his sweater and tied it around Magnus’s throat to stop the bleeding.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “I promised I’d never do this again.”
He took out his phone, intending to call 911. “Who are you talking to?” he asked.
“I can save him.” Her gaze was on Magnus, pain and indecision wracking her expression.
“Then do it.”
She turned to him. “The price is high. Maybe too high.”
“You take on the wounds? I know a woman who uses her psychic energy to heal, but she hasn’t died from it.”
Her eyebrows furrowed at that and she shook her head. “It’s not me I’m worried about. If I heal him, he’ll become like me.”
Like smoke. “And what are you?”
Her voice was tight when she said, “I don’t know.” The truth of that shone in her eyes. “I heard my father call it Darkness.”
Lachlan gestured to Magnus. “That man who did this?”
“God, no. He’s my uncle, Russell. He injured my dog, and I used Darkness to bring him back. Constantine was okay, for a while. Then another dog encroached on his territory and he went nuts. He had to be put down.” She blinked rapidly, agony in her voice. “What should I do? We don’t have much time to decide. I can’t bring him back if he dies.”
Magnus’s face contorted in pain, his body shaking violently. Lachlan felt those gaping wounds in his chest as though he bore them himself. “Save him.”
She nodded, removing the sweater and holding her hands over Magnus’s throat. Before his eyes, she turned to smoke again, coalescing, but she kep
t a vaguely human shape. The smoke flowed from the tips of her hands into Magnus.
Lachlan put his hands on Magnus’s thighs, keeping them from trembling so hard. “I’m here, brother. I’m here. Hang on.”
The smoke covered those horrible wounds. Magnus’s body stopped trembling, but Lachlan didn’t pull his hands away. His gaze went to Jessie again. What in the bloody damn hell? Her form began to lighten and she became wholly human again. The smoke evaporated, leaving Magnus’s throat whole. Blood still covered his ripped collar, but there were no wounds. Lachlan touched the smooth skin, stunned. Magnus was alive, his chest rising and falling. He was all right. They would deal with this Darkness. Relief swept through him.
Her eyes were open, though struggling to stay that way. “You have to get him out of here. I don’t know what you did to make Russell leave, but he’ll be back.”
He hoisted his brother over his shoulder. Magnus outweighed him by fifty pounds, and his muscles screamed at the exertion. She held out her arms, as though she could catch Magnus if he fell. Hell, maybe she could.
“I’ve got him,” he said in a strained voice.
“I’ll get your coat. And”—she picked up his half-lang sword, eyeing the long blade with wary curiosity—“your sword.” She grasped the leather-clad grip with one hand, the disc pommel with the other. “Follow me to the gate.”
There would be no climbing fences with Magnus.
She walked alongside him, vigilant of their surroundings, like someone who was used to being under attack. “He’ll probably sleep for a few days. That’s what Constantine did.”
“Your dog?”
She nodded. “I have to go. I’ll call Magnus’s phone, check on him—”
“Like hell you’re going anywhere.”
Her eyes sparked with fear and rebellion. “There’s nothing more I can do for him. And no way am I going with you.”
He shifted Magnus’s weight, wobbling as he tried to maintain his balance. “Still think I’m psychotic? This is what I saw, my brother getting killed. And even knowing it, I couldn’t stop it.” He let those words cut into him. “I assumed you’d done it, since you were standing beside him.”
“Okay, I give you that; you did see a vision of the future. But that doesn’t mean you’re sane or safe. You even said you were crazy, back at my apartment after you broke in and assaulted me. Which isn’t something reasonable people do, by the way.”
“I didn’t break in intending to interrogate you. I was trying to find out what you were up to, and you came home unexpectedly. So I took the opportunity.” He could hear the strain in his voice. They walked through the gate, and she closed it behind her. Just a few more yards to the parking area.
“Look, it’s better for all of us if I don’t go with you.”
He walked to her car. “Open the door.”
She hesitated. “Why mine?”
“Your vehicle has more room, and I can’t bloody well lay him in the bed of my truck.” When her mouth tightened, he pressed on. “You dragged him into this. Now I need your help to get him to safety.” Yeah, he was using the guilt card. He saw the moment she caved, though reluctantly. She lunged forward and opened the back passenger door.
He held back the groan as he relieved himself of Magnus’s weight. “We’ll take him to Sanctuary. Our home. Follow me.”
Her mouth fell open, but he headed to his truck. She would follow. Then he wanted answers.
Chapter 4
Jessie stood beside the bed, her gaze locked on the man across the room from her who had carried his brother through courtyards and doors that she opened for him. She’d hardly paid attention to the house, other than it was in the woods and down a long gravel road with signs warning against trespassing. People could do amazing things when they had to. When they loved someone. He cared about his brother, but he was no less scary than when he’d broken into her apartment.
Every muscle in her body twitched in preparation to run, escape. The brute had strong-armed her into coming here, but she owed him that because, dammit, it was her fault Magnus had been hurt. Her gaze drifted down to where he slept peacefully, unaware of what lurked inside him now. His brother had torn off his bloodied shirt and, while she looked away, his pants. Now sheets covered his lower body, leaving his chest bare. His brother had washed Magnus’s body but missed some blood caked in his curls. She stared at Magnus’s throat, with no trace of the fatal wound. It had astounded her when Constantine healed. Still did.
The room’s blue walls were the color of a twilight sky. The bed’s massive headboard had shelves filled with books, many about music or musicians. She saw one about Ginger Baker, and another called Mad, Bad and Dangerous: The Book of Drummers’ Tales.
Mad, bad, and dangerous. Yeah, that about summed up the man who stood across the bed from her, his hands flat on the edge of the mattress as he, too, seemed stunned by the healed wound. She saw the same mixture of fear and anger that she felt. He wore only black pants, his bare torso long and leanly muscled. His long hair was tied back, emphasizing his square jaw and arched eyebrows. The trimmed beard made him look like a pirate or, seeing the sword he’d brandished leaning against the wall behind him, a primitive Highlander. The movie Braveheart came to mind, all those delicious men in kilts raging into battle for freedom. That same ferocity and wildness glowed in his eyes as they pinned her like that sword.
“Tell me about Darkness.”
Those brown eyes told her she wasn’t going anywhere until she laid out her soul.
“I don’t even know your name.” A hysterical hiccup-laugh escaped her mouth. “It’s not like we’ve been properly introduced.”
“I’m called Lachlan. What’s in him?”
He knew her, of course, because he’d gone through her things, violated her space. “I’ll tell you what I know.” Her gaze flicked to Magnus. “But I want to wash the blood out of his hair. I . . . I can’t stand to see it on him.”
“Alright.” He nodded toward the adjacent bathroom, inviting—or, rather, instructing—her to go first. He wasn’t about to leave her in a position where she could run. He rinsed the washcloth he’d used earlier, squeezed out the excess water, and handed it to her. She settled on the edge of the bed and scrubbed out the blood.
Lachlan paced, jamming his fingers through his hair until they stopped at his ponytail holder. He wrenched it out and tossed it to the floor, shaking his head. As scruffy as he looked, his hair fell in shiny, clean waves down his back.
“Are you some kind of demon?” he asked. “I saw your notebook.”
“I’m not this thing.” She held herself, and the anger at his word you, back. “I’m a person, like you. It’s something in me. Not me.”
“Semantics. I saw you and that son of a bitch turn into something inhuman.”
She wanted to convince him, but that would sound like begging. He’d seen her notebook, her own personal search for answers.
He jabbed his finger toward her. “That’s how you threw me across the room. I thought something weird had gone on, but it happened so fast, I couldn’t tell. I thought I was mad. Then, back at the carnival, you turned to a black fog. What the hell are you?”
She heard the stretch of emotion in his voice. And the accusation. “I don’t know. That’s why I’ve been studying demonology, trying to find something that fits. I’m not evil. I don’t want to go around killing people.” Way to sound like you’re trying to convince him. “I used it to save Magnus, after all.”
“And now he’s some kind of monster.”
She bristled. “You had a choice.”
“Some choice, that or let him die. But now I need to know, what’s in him? Will he turn into smoke, too? Or some bloody wolf thing that’ll eviscerate me the next time we have an argument?”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “All I know is what happened to my dog. Constantine turned to smoke, though not completely. I could see it blur his edges.”
“And the man who did this to him . .
. he turned into a creature. His claws were sharp enough to tear through flesh and muscle. Are you a werewolf?”
Keep calm, seem unaffected. “I studied the werewolves’ myths. They turn into actual wolves, with fur, so no, I don’t think so. Plus Becoming Darkness has nothing to do with the full moon.”
“You’re not a vampire or a chupacabra or anything else I can think of. What you are doesn’t fit with any of the supernatural myths, does it? But a demon, can’t they do what they want?”
“I’m not a demon!” Now her emotion leaked into her voice. He’d touched on her biggest fear, that she harbored a demon inside. She took a deep breath, walked to the bathroom and set the cloth in the sink. “At least I don’t think so,” she added in a quiet voice, so soft she hoped he hadn’t heard. She glimpsed her reflection, hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot, dirt smearing her face. That was the hell of it. No answers.
She splashed water over her face, needing the coolness of it as much as its cleansing. After drying off, she returned to the bedroom, keeping her gaze on Magnus and not Lachlan.
Not that he could be ignored. “Tell me about the man who turned to wolf, this Russell.”
“He’s my father’s brother. He killed my mother and . . .” This would sound crazy, but he’d already seen Darkness. It wasn’t much crazier than that. “He took over my dad’s body.”
“Took over?”
She didn’t want to tell him everything about her life, but he wasn’t going to let her leave until she told him enough. That was evident in the stiffness of his body, the way he looked like he would pin her with that sword if she tried. She supposed she owed him that much.
“It happened when I was ten.” Every word about the events in the kitchen felt as though she had to wrench it from her chest. “Russell went to prison for fourteen years, two counts manslaughter. He got out two years ago, and now he’s hunting me down for revenge, I’m sure. Magnus . . . he just got in the way, being a hero.”
