The Dark One

by Jennifer Martucci

  In my spot, I watch and wait for a little more than two hours. Stiff and with aches and pains in places I can’t rub in public, I start to think this trip was a complete waste of my time. Luke, if he even lives here, is probably sitting on the couch watching television or playing videos games. I decide I should be doing the same and determine that leaving is the most logical option at this point. But before I do, I exit my car and creep across the street to the edge of the property. Only as soon as my foot touches grass, the front porch light turns on and the immediate vicinity is bathed in bright light. Startled, I scramble back to my car, careful to remain crouched low. Once concealed and safe in my car, I peek over the dashboard in time to see Luke walking to the black car, keys in hand. He climbs in and starts the engine before backing out and taking off down the street. I wait for a beat or two then start my engine and follow. I’ve watched enough movies and television shows to know that when I’m tailing someone, I need to stay back a few car lengths.

  I follow Luke through town and to the entrance to the Taconic State Parkway. A highway with two lanes that appear to be one decent sized one divided in half, the Taconic Parkway is a winding stretch of asphalt upon which motorists drive as if their racing the German Autobahn. With little experience with highway driving, the particular one I’m entering looms as a daunting, terrifying challenge. I lean forward, close to the steering wheel and hold it so tightly my knuckles blanch. I drive that way for about a half-hour, exiting at Hopewell Junction. Remaining a safe distance back from Luke’s vehicle, I continue to follow and am relieved to be off the highway as I navigate through a small, quiet town. Shops line the streets and only one shopping plaza boasts a supermarket and a commercial donut shop in its lot. We pass the plaza as well as a bank and enter a long driveway. I pull off and park, keeping my SUV as far from streetlights as possible. Realizing we’ve entered a recreation area before I park means the way we entered is the only way we can exit, I recognize the necessity of traveling on foot from here on out.

  After my vehicle is locked, I jog past tennis courts, basketball courts and a baseball field, following the path to a playground nestled beside a track and a football field. I hug the trees that line the entire area, careful to keep to the shadows. I do not see Luke’s car. In fact, all I see are areas designed for activity and picnic areas interspersed here and there in between.

  I venture out of the shadows and away from the safety of the trees for a moment, and when I do, I’m struck by the sensation of being drawn into a pull so magnetic it rivals gravity. My senses heighten. My skin prickles with awareness. And I suddenly know that coming here tonight was for a distinct reason, that I was right. Luke Carmichael is the one. He must be. Any and all fear melts away and I begin to move with purpose, no longer clinging to the shadows of the tree line. I venture away from the woods, moving deeper into the park.

  As I cross a baseball diamond, the wind blows, and on it the sound of a female voice is carried. I freeze, halting and reaching out with all my senses, and I hear it again. Panicked, dripping with fear, the cries I hear slash at my core. They spark anger. They spark action.

  Taking off, my legs race with speed I never knew I possessed. Running so that my heart thunders like the beat of a war drum in time with the pounding of my feet against the ground, I race toward the sound. Growing louder and clearer, they guide me and I know I’m heading in the right direction. When I spot two girls lying in the dew-covered grass crying, I slow to avoid trampling them. Faces bruised and arms bound behind their backs, the girls are bloodied and matted. The sadness I feel for them overwhelms me as completely as the outrage at what was done to them. Yet in spite of all that I’m feeling, I can’t help but ponder how Luke could’ve possibly had the time to do what’s been done to them. After all, he just arrived maybe minutes ahead of me, if that much. The wounds these girls have sustained took more time than that. Even if he’d done this earlier and left them here until now, they would’ve been discovered. It doesn’t make sense. The timeline doesn’t add up.

  Seeing me as I mull over how thy came to be as they are, the girls scream.

  “No, no, I’m not going to hurt you,” I whisper loudly. They shrink away from me and guilt coats me like a scum on a pond. “Are you okay?”

  “Th-they’re going to k-k-kill us. They’ll kill you too,” one girls says as violent tremors rack her body.

  “Who? Who’s going to kill us?” I ask.

  But before I hear an answer, a blunt object swung at a high speed connects with my back, knocking the wind from my lungs and upending my balance. Gasping, I fall to the ground face first. Anticipating another attack, I roll over and look up. A man who appears to be in his early twenties looms over me with a thick tree branch clutched in both hands. He wields it like a baseball bat. Stony moonlight casts an eerie shroud on all that it touches, deepening the hollows of his face and gleaming off eyes that are darker than the night sky and shine like polished onyx.

  Black eyes. Black, soulless eyes that are windows to the deepest, foulest pits of the underworld. They evoke a primal reaction from me. Without thinking, I spring to my feet with the speed and agility of a trained predator and launch my full weight at him. Using my thumbs, I drive them into his eyes and he howls out in pain. I do not relent, though. Instead, I ball my hand into a tight fist and drive it into his face again and again until something warm and wet spills on my hands. I am in the clutches of vengeful fury. I know what he is and what he intends to do to the girls, to my sweet Sarah, and I can’t allow that. I pummel him until consciousness escapes him and his large body buckles. My sense of accomplishment at dropping him is short-lived. Feet begin stomping my torso and legs. I twist and writhe and find three men, all with eyes blacker than the darkest night, poised to kill me. A flurry of fists and feet assault me. I twist and turn and attempt to get to my feet but I’m outnumbered. One of the men descends on me, moving in closer than the others and blasting me with his fists. They connect with my face, generating a supernova of pain and light that bursts before my eyes. A gush of warmth pours from my nose and blood spatters my shirt. Firm fingers grip my upper arms, lifting me off the ground. I writhe and buck, doing my best to break their grip, but it’s no use. My face is pounded again and again. The others simply hold me in place as a human punching bag.

  Darkness begins to tease at the edges of my vision. Consciousness escapes me. I wonder whether this is how I will die. I survived a shotgun blast to my chest, yet a walk in the park will be my demise. The irony of it is almost too much to fathom.

  Head snapping back from the impact of another punch, I struggle to keep my eyes open. Somehow, though, through the swelling and stinging, my eyelids flutter. I look up and into the eyes of the person punching me, and when I do, I catch sight of moonlight glinting off the blade of a dagger as it flies through the air. It lands with a sickly thud when it lodges in the man’s throat. The whir of another blade is heard seconds before it sticks in the eye of one of the two men holding me. The third releases his hold on me and I fall to the ground.

  Slow to move and with every part of my body throbbing in time with my heart, I manage to get to my feet and scan the landscape. Crouching low and fearful of another flying dagger aimed at me, I set off at a clumsy run in an effort to get the heck out of the park. When I do, I see a figure charging toward me from the darkness. In the space of a breath, he appears as if from thin air. Experience tells me to bolt, but inexplicably, my current situation demands that I stay. The closer he draws, the more familiar he becomes. Luke. Luke is racing toward me.

  Lengths of inky black hair billow behind him like banners and he moves with the speed and grace of a jungle cat. But neither his hair nor his speed is what commands my attention. It is his eyes. Glowing with the whitest light I’ve only seen once before when I died from the shotgun blast, his eyes are trained straight ahead, on the last man left of the three. Seeing Luke, fear plagues the man’s face. He immediately scuttles to his feet and tries to run, but Luke leaps, clut
ching a blade in one hand and closing the distance between them. With a war cry, he hoists the blade high and drives it into the man’s skull, ending his life in one swift motion.

  Not missing a beat and removing his weapon from the fallen man, Luke squares his shoulders, turning so that he faces me. Pure light as warm and buttery as rays of sunlight at the dawn of a new day radiate from his eyes. In their glow, I feel at peace. I’m also infused with a strong sense of familiarity, the sense that I’ve known him my entire life. I don’t want to look away. The light, as intriguing and welcoming as the one I experienced when I died, reaches out to me. My legs are rooted to the ground upon which I stand until a bone-chilling screech rings out, piercing the atmosphere and bleeding it of its safety. The sound accompanies a foul, sulfurous substance that wafts from the bodies of the slain. As ephemeral as a cloud and as grotesque in sight and scent as death itself, the sound continues, and the bodies shudder. Rumbling and convulsing, the bodies unexpectedly explode in a sonic boom. Ill intent snakes from the detonation like serpents, yet matter does not. Flesh and bone is reduced to ash that is promptly carried away on the breeze. Howling suddenly, the wind purges the earth beneath my feet. I am left standing with my mouth agape.

  “Did you see that?” I mutter the question.

  “Of course, I saw it. I’ve seen it thousands of times,” Luke replies.

  Mouth dry and in a degree of shock from all that I’ve witnessed, I ask, “What is it?”

  Luke turns, his hair swishing and falling over one shoulder. “It is evil being destroyed,” he says with the offhandedness of a man who just made reference to how toast is made. “It’s why we are here.”

  “We?” I wonder whether I heard him right.

  Holding up a hand to halt any further questioning, Luke shakes his head. “Not now. Save your questions. Right now we have to get out of here before someone finds us.” He sets off at a sprint, rushing to the girls being held and releases them. They run off, grateful to be free. He then faces me. “Let’s go. I’ll tell you everything you need to know as soon as we’re out of the area.”

  Nodding woodenly and aching all over, I agree. And in that moment, I realize, I have no other choice than to hear him out, for deep in my bones, I know he is a part of my destiny.

  Chapter 10

  Eyes the color of emeralds train on me as they carve through the darkness. Shifting as they drill into me, I slide my hands into my pockets. “Get in your car and follow me.” Luke’s voice is low and gravelly, a deadly shiver to his timbre.

  I nod wordlessly, and if my face is any indicator of what I’m feeling, I look like a complete buffoon. Not wasting a moment, I rush to where my car is parked, but even rushing, by the time I get there, Luke is already waiting. Fumbling with my keys as I open the driver’s side door, I barely have time to start the car and turn on the headlights before he takes off, dust and gravel kicking up as he does. I follow him, turning right out of the recreation center then left onto a main road before turning right into a shopping center. The neon lights of a supermarket glow and a few employees stand outside sipping from white Styrofoam cups and chatting. Luke passes the front lot that faces them, opting instead for a corner that’s farther away and with fewer streetlamps. Cloaked in darkness, he turns off his headlights and I follow suit. He climbs out of the car. Mind racing yet not forming a coherent thought, I mimic his actions, exiting my vehicle.

  With the predatory grace of a panther, Luke advances, bounding toward me and reaching me in two steps. His face is set in stone, lips tight and eyes fixed coldly. I recoil, anticipating a fist to my face.

  With fists and faces in mind, the injuries I incurred just moments ago no longer ache. It’s odd how that’s the final thought that echoes through my head in the seconds before Luke’s face is inches from mine.

  “Why were you following me?” he demands. His words are a low growl that slip through his teeth.

  “I-I,” I start but he cuts me off with more questions.

  “Were you drawn here? Did you think I needed your help? Because I don’t.” Everything about his posture is threatening. I take an instinctive step backward, putting some much-needed space between us.

  “My help?” The words leave my lips before I have time to think about them, the absurdity of him needing me trumping a more sensible question such as “How the heck did you throw those daggers with deadly precision?”

  Bordering on enraged now, my two-word question worsens matters. “Those were my kills! You stole one from me!” One fist is tight while his index finger on his other hand points at me accusingly. Of course, I still have no idea what he’s talking about.

  Taking a deep breath and expecting that he’ll level me as soon as my next question hits his ears, I cannot take the confusion a second longer. “What the heck are you talking about?”

  To my surprise, Luke doesn’t move to deck me, and his face, pinched to an angry point until now, relaxes. He stares at me blankly for several beats. I clear my throat, my lips pressed together to form an expression that is neither a smile nor a frown but a look of expectancy. I’m waiting for his response.

  Luke closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. He lowers his head and his glossy black hair falls around his face. He pulls it straight back into a low ponytail, and it reflects moonlight in a blue-black sheen. When he lifts his head, his gaze meets mine. Do you even know what you are? What we are?”

  “Do I know what we are?” I repeat the question he’s asked to be sure I heard it properly.

  Dropping his hand so that it slaps against his thigh, his face puckers in agitation. “What are you, a parrot? Why do you keep repeating me?” He huffs and his upper lip curls over his teeth. “Do you even know why you’re still alive?”

  I haven’t the vaguest idea what he’s talking about and a part of me wants to repeat the last part of his series of questions and say, “Why I’m still alive?” but I’d bet a kidney that would get my face punched in at this point. So I hold my tongue despite not knowing what he’s talking about.

  When he glowers at me for a long, hard period, I squirm. “Speak!” he hisses through his teeth.

  “How were your eyes glowing like that? That white light that was there . . .” I don’t say that it was achingly familiar, that it was identical to the light I saw when I died.

  Slapping his formidable hand to his forehead before dragging it down his face, Luke snarls at me. “Oh my gosh! You’re a complete noob!” He throws his hands in the air in exasperation. “So tell me, when did you die?”

  Shocked by not only what he’s said but by the confident, offhand tone he uses, I jerk my head back as if I’ve just been struck. “What? What’re you talking about?’ I stammer and feel my cheeks redden.

  Luke arcs a brow and glares at me.

  Everything about his demeanor—his posture, his facial expression, and the flicker in his eyes that flares like a flame—screams that he knows a lot more about what’s happening to me than I do, so I decide to end the charade and not bother telling another lie. “When. Did. You. Die?” He enunciates each word slowly and clearly, his penetrating gaze never wavering.

  Mouth dry and throat feeling so parched it might as well be lined with cotton balls, I say, “A few months ago.” I shift my weight from one leg to the next, clearing my throat and waiting, the air around us charged with energy similar to the atmosphere before a thunderstorm.

  Boring a hole into my head, Luke stares at me unblinkingly as the small muscles around his jaw bunch and flex. After several moments pass, he asks, “Was that the first one you killed?’ He clips his head toward the direction we came from, toward the recreation center.

  “The first one?” I ask, unsure of his exact meaning.

  His lips tighten to a furious circle. “Stop repeating everything I say!” His fist is clenched at his side, and for reasons I cannot explain, I fear it more than any firearm I can conceive of. “Was that the first Dark One you’ve ever killed, you know, a black-eyed dirt bag?” he
spits the words, Dark One and black-eyed dirt bag with complete disdain.

  My gaze meets his. I hold it there, almost afraid to tell him no, but an instinctive voice warns me that lying to him will only result in trouble for me, and potentially unimaginable pain. “No,” I say in a small voice. “It was the second. But the first one didn’t burst into ash like the ones at the park just did. Why? And then there was another I should have killed but I got him arrested instead,” I ramble.

  “He wouldn’t burst into ashes in a public place. There’d be witnesses. And arrested? Are you kidding me?” Luke asks, the shock and incredulity he’s feeling plain. But instantly, shock and incredulity turn to rage. “Are you kidding me?” he roars. “That’s not going to get it done. That isn’t why you’re here.”

  He speaks in riddles that confuse and terrify me. “What do you mean, why I’m here?” Now I am the one who throws his hands in the air in frustration. “I don’t understand! I don’t understand any of what’s going on!” Hot tears sting my eyes. I furiously blink them back. The last thing I want is for Luke to see me spun up as I am now. All that’s happened since that fateful night I went to the convenience store has been an overwhelming, all-consuming mystery. What he’s saying only compounds that feeling.