Dark Starlight: Archaic Races Book One

by Hannah West

  I grab milk from the fridge then have to squash the plastic carton back between the jars of homemade pickles. My fridge is full of food donated by people from the village. I understand the sentiment, knowing they’re only trying to help. But the amount of stuff they’ve sent is ridiculous. There’s enough to feed a family of four and I’m annoyed that most of it will go to waste.

  I take my coffee back into the garden, going straight to where the light was in the hedgerow. There’s no light or tingling sensation this time and I huff an annoyed breath. Hallucination or not, Aunt Katherine has impeccable timing. I sigh and take myself back up to the house, taking one last glance over my shoulder before going inside.

  CHAPTER 3

  I groan and turn my face into the sofa cushion. A crack between the living room curtains in letting sunlight hit me straight in the face, waking me from the first sleep I’ve had in forever. I reach over and grab my phone from the coffee table. The time flashes up on the screen and I sigh. The last thing I remember is watching crappy TV at three in the morning, while eating the family-size trifle Mrs Benton made me.

  I push from the sofa and wipe sleep from my eyes. It’s nearly nine, so I’ve slept almost six hours. I feel refreshed but need coffee and a hot shower to bring me around. I search the kitchen for my favourite mug then open the back door to take my drink outside. I pause before stepping outside, looking at the rose on my backdoor step. It’s jewel-toned and a shade of purple I’ve never witnessed in a flower. I put my coffee down and retrieve the rose. It sparkles in the morning sunlight, the petals dusted with amethyst glitter.

  I suck in a breath, thinking of the amethyst light in the hedgerow. Around midnight I convinced myself I’d hallucinated the whole encounter. But the flower in my hand is no ordinary flower. I turn it between my fingers and realise there’s a tag tied to the stem. One word marks the card in curling script.

  Anya.

  A shiver skitters up my spine and I scour the back garden with my gaze. The light was real, meaning a stranger was in my yard last night leaving flowers on my doorstep. It sounds sort of romantic, but I’m still fuming over his cavalier attitude. This guy, whoever he is, keeps doing stuff without my permission. If he wants to give me a flower then why not give it to me in person? He could just knock on the door and introduce himself, instead of hanging out in the bushes like a creeper.

  I march over to the compost bin in the garden. It’s a beautiful flower but I don’t want it in my home, encouraging his behaviour. I lift the bin lid, ready to throw it inside, but don’t get chance. The rose explodes into a cloud of purple dust and coats my skin. I cough and try to wipe the shimmering stuff off, but darkness rises from my flesh and sucks the dust inside. My knees go weak and I moan, gripping the edge of the bin in white knuckled desperation to stay upright. Energy pulses through me in blasts of intense…what? It feels too good, but it’s so potent it splinters my body with pain.

  I give in and drop to my knees, sucking in breaths of air in a battle to stay conscious. The pulses slow, ebbing, until I’m panting on my knees in the dirt. I catch my breath then stand up. I feel…wonderful. I flex my tingling fingers and take stock. The ache of fatigue is gone from my limbs, a pleasant tingling fizzing through me in its place. I’m confused and more than a little freaked out. What the hell was in that flower?

  I slump into a chair at the kitchen table and take a second to absorb what just happened. Darkness is swirling around my insides and my skin tingles. My pyjamas are muddy at the knee and I’ve got dirt beneath my fingernails from clawing at the grass. I sigh and push to my feet. I can’t seem to go a day without rolling in the mud.

  I take a long shower and get dressed. The darkness has settled by the time I get downstairs, but the fatigue hasn’t returned and I feel a little hyped. I use the extra energy to clean the cottage. I spend hours dusting and washing, ignoring one room, until there’s nothing else to clean, except that room. My fingers curl around the door handle and I stare at the door. My heart is pounding as I depress the handle and push inside. Mum’s scent hits me and my throat goes tight. I haven’t been in here since she died, and I’m half expecting to see her smiling face.

  But I won’t. I’ll never see her smile at me again.

  I step into the room and take a pillow from the bed. I bury my nose in the fabric and breathe the scent of her. An ache yawns wide inside my chest and tears blur my vision. I can’t bring myself to strip the sheets and wash her from the room. One day the scent will fade and I’ll be forced to accept that she’s gone, but until then what harm will it do to leave her stamp on this room? I put the pillow back and close the door softly on my way out. The darkness is unsettled again, reacting to my grief, like the day of the funeral. Onyx tendrils caress the door as I move away and my skin prickles.

  There’s a knock on the door as I make it downstairs. I turn left towards the front door, but the knocking sounds again from the direction of the kitchen. I hesitate for just a second, wondering if it’s him. I shake my head and get it together. So what if it is the stranger from the hedgerow? So he’s not normal. Neither am I.

  I take a deep breath as I reach the back door. If I’m honest, I’m more excited than nervous. I’ve never met anyone with abilities outside of what’s considered natural for a human. Then again, I’m the only one that can see my darkness, so maybe I’ve met loads of people with conditions like mine and just don’t know it. I open the door, the breath of anticipation leaving me in a sigh when I see who is on the other side.

  ‘Drew,’ I mutter.

  ‘A fine hello for your best friend,’ he answers.

  ‘You missed the funeral.’

  ‘Because you text me about it at one this morning,’ he counters.

  The annoyance in his tone rubs me the wrong way. Well boo for him. I phoned him the day Mum died and he didn’t pick up. That was over two weeks ago. He tried to phone me back the morning of the funeral, but I let it go to voicemail. I had enough to deal with trying to control my darkness. I didn’t have the capacity to deal with Drew’s grief as well.

  ‘I phoned you the day she died,’ I snap. ‘Some best friend you are, Andrew Frost.’

  Drew shuts his mouth, argument fading at my words. I’m right and he knows it. He’s been away at university, living his life and I understand. I don’t want to tie him down to the village and the small life I’m living. But you’re supposed to be there for the people you love and he’s failed epically in that department.

  ‘You lost the title of Best Friend a while back,’ I add just to hurt him.

  It’s a low blow but the bitterness I feel has risen to the surface. For a while Drew pressured me to be more than friends but I held off. I didn’t want to ruin the best friendship I had. I’ve always been a bit weird, with the whole darkness thing, but Drew saw past that. I felt comfortable around him – safe. Then Mum got sick and he pulled away. When the chance came for him to go to university he bolted. He chose to escape and deep down I understand why. My mum was an important figure in his life and he was scared of seeing her waste away. But he left when I needed him most, and the hurt hasn’t gone away.

  Drew rakes long fingers through his blond hair, apologetic gaze meeting mine. It makes me angrier because I feel a stab of guilt for making him feel bad. Moisture gathers in his pale blue eyes and he looks away, scratching the back of his neck.

  ‘I’m sorry, Prim,’ he murmurs, voice thick with tears.

  His gaze meets mine and I watch a tear roll down his cheek. I scowl at that tear because it’s making me weak. I force myself not to pull him into a hug.

  ‘You’re still a giant wimp then?’ I snap.

  Drew’s lips twitch into the semblance of a smile. ‘Yeah,’ he answers.

  I sigh. ‘You’d better come in,’ I growl then turn back into the house, leaving him to close the door behind him.

  I fill the kettle to make him a tea and me a coffee. Drew goes to the fridge and routes through the contents. I watch his eyes grow wide, befo
re he pulls out a tray of caramel shortbread.

  ‘Is this Mrs Chamberlain’s caramel shortbread?’ he whispers, tone reverent.

  ‘Why do you think it’s in the fridge?’ I answer.

  Mrs Chamberlain’s caramel shortbread is famous in the village. She does something to the caramel that makes it gooey at room temperature, so you have to store it in the fridge or end up with a sticky mess. The shortbread is buttery and crumbly and the chocolate creamy. She must make at least ten trays a week at the request of people in the village. She gifted me this one at the wake.

  Drew closes his eyes and sniffs the confection, humming in delight as he does.

  ‘Stop sticking your nose in it,’ I say thinking of all the germs he just exhaled over it.

  He puts the tray on the counter and grins at me. It’s a wicked flash of teeth that would have most girls fluttering their lashes. I roll my eyes and turn back to making our drinks. Drew will never be more than a friend. Not that I never considered more before he pushed for it. I did almost cave to his pressuring once, but he cemented himself in the Friend Zone when he baled on me.

  I turn back to make the drinks and he comes to stand beside me, his arm brushing mine, and I feel his disappointment seep through my skin. I break the contact and purse my lips at the fact he still thinks he’s got a chance with me. I’ve done nothing to encourage him. If anything, I’ve made it painfully clear where the boundaries of our relationship lie. Darkness pulses around me, dissipating the fog of Drew’s emotion and allowing me to breathe.

  ‘Thanks,’ Drew says when I hand him a cup of tea.

  I cut him a large slice of caramel shortbread and put it on a plate. He takes it from me and I smirk at his grateful expression. Drew follows me into the living room. Relief that I spent the day cleaning washes through me. I’ve cleared away the evidence of my sleeping on the sofa and the room gleams, like the rest of the house.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I ask once we’re both seated.

  ‘Because your mum died, Prim.’

  ‘And?’ I counter at his offended tone. ‘You missed the funeral, Drew. There’s nothing else to come back for.’

  ‘There’s you,’ he argues.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Primrose!’ he barks. ‘What do you think I mean? Are you okay? How are you coping? Is there anything I can do?’

  Darkness flares around me in response to his anger. I stare at Drew, trying to temper the wild rage in my middle. It’s harder to control since the day I killed the flowers in the meadow - stronger. Drew’s worried about me and I’m trying my hardest to hold the bitter words inside. I remind myself it’s not his fault. He didn’t take Mum from me and I can’t blame Drew for running away. Hell, I’ve wanted to run away everyday since Mum’s terminal diagnosis. I just didn’t have the option.

  ‘I’m doing okay,’ I answer, pushing the lie through numb lips.

  ‘Is that why the cottage smells like disinfectant,’ he asks, ‘because you’re okay?’

  ‘Cleaning helps me process,’ I answer, hating that he knows me so well. ‘It’s methodical and cathartic.’ And helps me switch off from the depressing thoughts in my head.

  ‘You need to speak to someone-’

  ‘No,’ I cut him off.

  ‘Prim, you’re grieving. It will help,’ he argues.

  ‘I’m not telling a complete stranger my personal issues,’ I snap.

  The idea of admitting anything to a professional scares the crap out of me. What if they analyse the dark thoughts in my head and realise I’m different to the average person. Hell no, not going to happen. I’ve watched too many movies where bad things happen to people deemed different.

  ‘Then talk to Katherine,’ he suggests. When I glare at him he adds, ‘then talk to me.’

  ‘No, Drew!’ I push to my feet, look around then sit back down. I meet his worried gaze and get pissed off. ‘Look, I know you’re worried about me, which is why I haven’t kicked you in the shin for suggesting this bull crappery,’ I hiss. ‘But understand this, Andrew Frost. My thoughts and feelings are private and will stay that way. If I need help then I’ll ask for it. If you can’t deal with that then get the hell out.’

  Drew scowls at me then sighs and grabs his caramel shortbread from the coffee table. ‘I can deal with it,’ he mutters.

  ‘Good,’ I tell him, deflating a little. ‘How long are you staying?’

  He chuckles around a bite of dessert. ‘Can’t wait to get rid of me?’

  ‘No,’ I admit.

  ‘Cheers,’ he mutters. ‘I go back in two days.’

  ‘You stopping at your stepdad’s?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, failing to hide the strain in his voice.

  Drew and his stepfather have had a strained relationship since Drew’s mother passed away when he was eleven. His stepdad has never been cruel or behaved in a negative way towards Drew. He even pays most of Drew’s university tuition. But there’s a rift between them that they’ve never been able to mend. Drew’s mother was the bridge between them and she’s gone. Her death was the reason Drew was close to my mum. He would come home with me most nights from school and have dinner with us. He enjoyed her attention and she enjoyed loving him like a son.

  Another wave of guilt washes through me and I squeeze his hand. Darkness reaches from me to Drew, weaving over his hand then up his arm in intricate onyx swirls. I watch it for a moment then meet his gaze. His grief and confusion hit me, like a punch to the gut. I resist the need to pull my hand from his and sever the connection, not wanting to hurt his feelings. Instead, I let the darkness leach the negative emotions from him, until the pain clears from his gaze and claws at my insides.

  ‘She loved you like a son,’ I murmur.

  ‘I know,’ he breathes. ‘Did she - was she hurt that I wasn’t there?’ he asks.

  Mum never commented on Drew’s absence, but I felt her upset. It’s where my bitterness stems from. I needed him here for her, more than for me. Drew and I are the same age, but I feel so much older. He seems like a lost child in moments like this and I can’t help but comfort him.

  ‘She understood,’ I say.

  ‘I miss her,’ he whispers.

  I can’t help feeling torn between smacking and hugging him. Part of me wonders why I’m the one comforting Drew, wondering how the hell he thinks I’m feeling right now. The other part pulls him into a hug and rubs his back, telling him it will be okay.

  CHAPTER 4

  Drew stays for a few hours, until I kick him out for eating half the food in my fridge. The idiot should be fat from his sweet tooth, but he’s got that guy thing where he can eat what he wants and not gain weight. I slump onto the sofa and flick through the channels on the television. My mind won’t focus enough to watch anything but the noise makes me feel less alone.

  Knocking sounds from the back door and I stare in that direction. Drew is the only person who insists on going to the back door. I think it makes him feel like he’s part of a secret club or something because he won’t stop. I shove from the sofa and stalk through the house. I turn the key in the lock and yank the door open.

  ‘Drew-’

  I stop at the vacant space where I expected Drew to be. There’s nobody here, but then I feel it. The hairs on my nape prickle and I know it’s him. Excitement and fear duel for dominance in my middle. I want to know more about this stranger, but he’s just plain creepy. Why won’t he show himself to me? How the heck is he even keeping out of sight? If I’m honest, I’m a little desperate to find out more about him and it’s overriding the fear. He’s the only being I’ve met that seems stranger than me, and there’s a magnetic draw to him I can’t explain.

  The feeling of being caressed mists over my skin. He’s touching me again, only it’s not a physical caress. He’s touching my darkness and it’s swirling around me in an excited cloud of midnight. I don’t know if I’m more annoyed at him, or just my lack of control around him. I can admit I’m desperate to know more abo
ut him, but I don’t want him to know that.

  ‘Stop that,’ I snap.

  A deep chuckle sounds from the garden but there’s no purple light this time to show where it’s coming from. I feel like he’s messing with me, and my hackles rise. I know it’s stupid, but I step into the garden and scan the night. My temper is my downfall. Once the fuse is lit it’s hard to rein it in.

  ‘Where are you?’ I growl.

  Heat blankets my back, violet light bathing my skin from behind. My darkness weaves through the light, painting pretty patterns on my flesh. My heart races at the feeling of home, that deep voice sounding against my ear and sending a shiver down my spine.

  ‘Anya,’ he murmurs.

  It feels like he’s hugging me but we aren’t touching. My darkness is fizzing at his nearness and I lock my knees to stay upright.

  ‘My name isn’t Anya,’ I grit out.

  Why the hell did I come outside? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  ‘I’ll call you by your name, if you gift me the knowledge,’ he answers.

  Oh?

  ‘Primrose,’ I breathe.

  ‘Primrose,’ he purrs, turning my name into a caress.

  ‘And you are?’

  A rumble sounds behind me, like my need to know his name is pleasing. A pulse of pleasure ripples from him to me in confirmation, and my darkness drinks it in. Just being near him is intoxicating. He’s making my mind lose focus and I don’t like it.

  ‘Zephyr,’ he hums against the shell of my ear, accent thickening. I can’t place it and it’s driving me crazy. He’s like mist; all around but I can’t grab onto him.

  ‘What are you doing in my garden, Zephyr?’

  ‘You enjoyed my gift?’ he asks, ignoring my question.

  Gift? It takes my brain a second to understand.

  ‘You mean the rose?’