A Glimpse of Darkness

by Lara Adrian

  Click.

  Shit.

  I dropped the phone and backpedaled out of the booth. My foot stamped down on something hard. The warmth of an arm wrapped around my waist, while a hand clamped over my mouth. Panic hit like ice water. One of my hands came up, clutching at what my eyes couldn’t see. Years of training told me that screaming was futile, but Chalice’s body refused to cooperate.

  I shrieked against my human (I hoped) gag, and tried to bite the palm and failed. I ground the heel of my sneaker down, longing for my heavy combat boots. My captor grunted, but didn’t loosen his ghostly hold.

  Broad daylight. He was attacking me in broad daylight.

  I hooked my left ankle around his, shifted my weight backward, and pulled. We fell over. I drove my elbow into his ribs just as he hit the sidewalk. The pained grunt it elicited was music to my ears. I landed a second jab. His hold loosened.

  “Will you stop? I won’t hurt you.”

  I froze, surprise replacing my fight instinct, and marveled at the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. Rolling sideways, I dropped into a crouch and found myself face-to-face with—

  Dead air. And the sidewalk. Lots of empty sidewalk.

  “Wyatt?” I asked. Had I hallucinated the whole thing as preparation for my loony bin audition?

  Warmth brushed my hand. I jerked.

  “Evy?” asked Wyatt’s disembodied voice. He could have been right in front of me, as the direction of his voice implied.

  Wherever he was, he shouted a sudden warning. “Behind you!”

  The air behind me shifted, and I flattened myself to the sidewalk. Something sailed over my head, “oofed!” as it hit a person who wasn’t even there, and skidded on its scaly ass until it slammed against a trash can.

  The goblin was young and stupid to be attacking me alone. He scrambled to his feet, standing barely four-foot-five hunched over, which made him tall for a goblin. Ruby eyes glared at me from beneath bushy black eyebrows. He snarled, lips pulling back over jagged teeth.

  Bile scorched the back of my throat. The unexpected reaction came without explanation or emotion—just immediate and profound revulsion at the sight of the angry goblin male, a simple leather loincloth the only thing between him and immodesty.

  Goblins never attacked in the open, or during the day.

  Air swirled behind me. I spun around, anticipating an attack from behind. The assumption proved correct, but the additional pair of goblins who appeared to assist their friend were already sprawled on the sidewalk. Like they’d run headfirst into an invisible brick wall.

  I pivoted again, but turned too late. Two inches of a dagger blade sank into my left shoulder, just above the cleft of my armpit. Pain shrieked through my chest. I spun the other way and clipped the goblin square in his pointy nose with my elbow. His head snapped backward. Fuchsia blood spurted from his nostrils. I continued my pivot and landed a roundhouse kick to the side of his head. He tumbled ass over teakettle into the street.

  Chalice’s untrained legs almost tangled together, but I kept myself upright. Inner thigh muscles screeched, protesting the acrobatic move. I grabbed the narrow hilt of the goblin’s blade and yanked. It slid out neatly and with only a minor amount of additional pain. I charged the downed goblin, intent on slitting him from sternum to scrotum.

  Wyatt cried out—a pained sound I knew too well. Attacker forgotten, I fixed my attention on the other two goblins, who appeared to be hanging in midair, attached to some invisible object. An object that was bleeding from a dagger, which dangled from nothing about four feet off the ground. The smaller goblin’s head was snapped back by an invisible blow, followed by a second that dislodged him. He hit the pavement and took off running.

  The remaining goblin snapped his cone-shaped teeth at the air. The blade of the embedded dagger became suddenly visible, coated in red blood. It turned and buried itself to the hilt in the throat of the trapped goblin, splattering fuchsia blood across what looked like a pair of human legs. The dead goblin was tossed to the sidewalk.

  Blood-soaked shoes took a step toward me. I stepped backward. Red, human blood continued to ooze into thin air, outlining a man’s torso.

  It couldn’t be. He was Gifted, sure, but his power was summoning inanimate objects. Since when could Wyatt turn invisible?

  The retreating goblin had almost reached the end of the block. I stepped into the quiet street, took aim, and with every bit of concentration I could muster, loosed the knife. It sailed straight, but arched down at the last instant. Instead of hitting the goblin square in the back, it buried itself in the creature’s leg. He stumbled forward, into the road, and was flattened by a speeding pickup truck. Brakes squealed, and the truck fishtailed out of sight.

  From a distance, the mess looked like the remains of someone’s dog, all black and pink and grotesquely inhuman. The truck’s engine continued to rumble just out of sight. I waited for the driver to back up or walk over, to see whose pet he’d just mangled. Instead, the engine roared and was gone.

  Typical.

  “Where’s the third?” Wyatt asked.

  Shit. The one who stabbed me had gotten away.

  “We need to get off the street,” he said. “Now.”

  I wasn’t about to argue. I followed the free-floating bloody torso toward the nearest apartment building, trying to reconcile my eyes with my senses. I smelled the blood, both human and goblin, and something else, so familiar—a spicy aftershave, like musk and cinnamon, unique to Wyatt. The continued invisibility frightened me, even though I’d never admit it. I wasn’t the only one who had changed.

  He led me through a narrow, musty lobby, past a row of mailboxes, toward a door marked with a laundry machine symbol. I followed him into a dank stairwell. Down we went, into a gray and damp world of concrete floors and cement-block walls. A chill wormed down my spine. At the bottom of the stairs, the room opened up. Four washing machines lined one wall, with four dryers opposite. A long, wooden table divided the room. There were no windows and no chairs.

  “It is really you?” his disembodied voice asked.

  I nodded at the blood. “It’s me, and if it’s really you, I could sure as shit use some answers. Maybe a face to talk to.”

  “Right; sorry.”

  He spoke words I didn’t recognize. The air around him shimmered and rippled, like heat off the surface of a desert road. A body materialized, faded, and then appeared with perfect clarity. One hand pressed against his wounded side; the other clutched a glowing yellow jewel. He desperately needed to shave the dark stubble that shadowed his chin and cheeks—as black as his short hair and intense, thick-lashed eyes. Blood of two species had soaked the legs of his jeans, staining them purple.

  Hurt and surprised and staring at me with open curiosity, Wyatt Truman smiled. It was such a familiar gesture of affection that my reaction to it was entirely unexpected. Something started in my stomach and surged upward, then came back down to settle deep in my abdomen—an instant and instinctive reaction to the mere sight of him, unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

  Wyatt had been my boss, my friend, and my confidant. Besides Jesse and Ash, he was the closest thing to family I’d ever known. I crossed the short space that separated us and flung my arms around his shoulders, ignoring the blood as I hugged him. Hard. One arm snaked around my waist. His breath tickled my ear.

  “You have no fucking idea how glad I am to see you,” I said. “I thought I was going crazy.”

  “I’m sorry, Evy,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  He stiffened. I pulled away to arm’s length. He pressed his lips into a thin line, black eyes searching mine for … something. Bright spots of color darkened his cheeks, and the intensity of his stare sent little niggles of doubt worming through my stomach.

  “Evy, what do you remember?” he asked.

  I didn’t like the sound of that. I backed up, putting another few feet of space between us. “I remember the Triads attacking t
he Owlkins, slaughtering them because they were hiding me. I called you, because I didn’t know what else to do.” But the memories still ended with me sneaking through a city street toward our meeting place.

  “That was a week ago,” he said.

  “No kidding. Do you mind filling in the blanks?”

  Despair crumpled his face. I bit the inside of my cheek, clenching my fists to resist the overwhelming instinct to hug him again. Something had happened to me, something very bad.

  “Wyatt, what happened? How did I die?”

  His eyes flickered toward my shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine.” Strangely enough, the knife wound didn’t hurt anymore. It sort of itched. “How did I die?”

  He limped over to one of the dryers and opened the door. Wrinkled laundry spilled onto the floor. He put the yellow jewel on top of the dryer and began sifting through the clothing. I eyed the precious gem, wondering if that was the source of his invisibility cloak, and how much he’d paid for it.

  “Wyatt?”

  “Nice necklace.”

  I fingered the cross around my neck. “Don’t change the subject.”

  He checked the waistband of a pair of jeans and, determining them appropriate, tossed them onto the room’s center table. “I should have been there when you woke,” he said, returning to his search. “But you didn’t come back where we thought you would. Even dead, you’re pretty damned contrary, you know that?”

  I smiled at the familiar jab. I always preferred questioning his orders over following them, and it drove him bat shit. Drove my partners bat shit, too, when they were alive. Even if I was wrong, the fun was in the argument.

  “Next time leave a better trail of bread crumbs, and I’ll try resurrecting to the appropriate body,” I said.

  He threw a cotton shirt on top of the jeans and stood up. Pain bracketed his eyes and pinched his mouth. My stomach tightened. I was such a bitch. Here he was, bleeding to death in front of me, and I kept nagging him for answers.

  “Take off your shirt,” I said, closing the distance between us.

  Wyatt arched an eyebrow.

  I rolled my eyes. “Let me see the wound, jackass.”

  I reached for his shirt, but he caught my hand. A tremor danced up my arm, awakened by his touch. I looked up, startled. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, there and gone in a blink. Warning bells clanged in my head.

  “I did it,” he said.

  “Did what?”

  His shoulders drooped. Agony radiated off him. He dropped my hand, and I mourned the loss of his touch. Only for a moment, though, because he spoke three words that shattered everything.

  “I killed you.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  KELLY MEDING discovered Freddy Krueger at a very young age and has since had a lifelong obsession with horror, science fiction, and fantasy, on which she blames her interest in vampires, psychic powers, superheroes, and all things paranormal. When not writing, she can be found crafting jewelry, playing with her cat, enjoying a good cup of coffee, or scouring the Internet for gossip on her favorite television shows.

  “Thus the Church made a covenant with humanity, to protect it from the malevolence of the dead; and if the Church fails, it will make amends.”

  —The Book of Truth, Veraxis, Article 201

  The market was in full swing when she got there just shy of eleven, with her body calm and her mind collected. A quick shower and blow-dry of her black-dyed Bettie Page haircut, a change into her off-work clothes, and the sweet relief of another Cept working its way into her beaten bloodstream were all she’d needed to feel normal again.

  Voices colored the air around her as she walked past the crumbling stone plinth that had once been the entryway to a Christian church. The church, of course, had been destroyed. It wasn’t necessary anymore. Who wasted their lives believing in a god when the Church had proof of the afterlife on its side? When the Church knew how to harness magic and energy?

  But the plinth stayed, a useless remnant—like so many other things. Including, she thought, herself.

  Against the far wall, food vendors offered fruit and vegetables, gleaming with wax and water under the orange light of the torches. Carcasses hung from beams, entire cows and chickens and ducks, lambs and pigs, scenting the cramped space with blood. It pooled on the dirt and stained the shoes of those walking through it, past the fire drums where they could cook their purchases.

  Then came the clothes, nothing too professional or clean. The salesmen knew their clientele in Downside Market. Tattered black and gray fabric blew in the wind like ghosts. Bright skirts and black vinyl decorated the teetering temporary walls and erupted from dusty boxes on the ground. Jewelry made mostly of razor blades and spikes reflected the flames back at her as she wandered through the narrow aisles, paying little attention to the strangers darting out of her way. Those who knew her lifted their heads in acknowledgment or gave her a quick, distracted smile, but the ones who didn’t … they saw her tattoos, saw witch, and moved. By strictly enforced law, only Church employees were allowed to have magical symbols and runes tattooed on themselves, and Church employees, no matter what branch, weren’t exactly welcome everywhere. Especially not in places where people had reason to resent their government.

  It used to bother her. Now she didn’t care. Who wanted a bunch of people poking their noses into her business? Not her.

  Chess liked the Market, especially when her vision started to blur a little, just enough that she didn’t have to see the desperate thinness of some of the dealers, the children in their filthy rags darting between the booths, trying to pick up scraps or coins people dropped. She didn’t have to watch them huddle by the fire drums even on a night as unseasonably warm as this one, as though they could store up enough heat to see them through the winter ahead. She didn’t have to think about the contrast between the middle-class suburban neighborhood she’d just left and the heart of Downside. Her home.

  Somewhere in the center she found Edsel lurking behind his booth like a corpse on display. The stillness of his body and his heavy-lidded eyes fooled people all the time; they thought he was sleeping, until they reached out to touch something—a ceremonial blade, a set of polished bones, a rat’s-skull rattle—and his hand clamped around their wrist before they could even finish their motion.

  Edsel was the closest thing she had to a friend.

  “Chess,” he drawled, his black-smoke voice caressing her bare arms. “Oughta get gone, baby. Word is Bump has the hammer down for you.”

  “He here tonight?” She glanced around as casually as she could.

  “Ain’t seen him. Seen Terrible, though. He’s watching. Could be he’s watching me, knowing you’ll come here and say hiya. You need something?”

  “We all have our needs,” she replied, running her fingers over a set of shiny tiger’s claws, marked with runes. Power slid from them up her arm, and she smiled. That was a rush, too; a Church-sanctioned one, even. “Actually, I could use a new Hand. You got any?”

  He nodded, bending down so his golden hair slid off his silk-covered shoulders and hid his features. “Workin another case?”

  “Hopefully will be soon.”

  Edsel held the Hand out to her. Its pale, wrinkled skin and gnarled fingers looked like a dead albino spider. She reached for it, stroking one of its fingertips with her own, and it twitched.

  “That’ll do. How much?”

  “You probly don’t wanna pay me now. Terrible sees you got money, it won’t make him too happy.”

  “Does anything make Terrible happy?”

  Edsel shrugged. “Hurting people.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, but the crowds around her didn’t feel as safe as they had when she arrived. All those people, and most of them had two eyes.

  Not that it mattered. She had to see him before she left, she didn’t have a choice. He could hunt her down or she could walk through that black door herself. She much preferred the second.


  She put the Hand in her bag—its fingers tried to grasp hers as she did—thanked Edsel, and walked on. No point in doing any more shopping if Terrible was watching. Edsel was right. The sight of her spending what little money she had would only piss him off. So she headed straight for the lower office, figuring the element of surprise might swing things in her favor a little bit.

  Too bad it was impossible to surprise someone lying in wait. Terrible grabbed her as she rounded the corner, his lips curved in what would have been a grin on a normal person, which he wasn’t. On his scarred, shadowed face, the smile made him look like he was getting ready to bite.

  “Bump looking for you, Chess,” he said. His fingers dug into her upper arm. “He been looking awhile.”

  “I saw him two days ago.”

  “But he want you tonight. Like now. Come on, you gonna see him.”

  “I was already on my way to see him.”

  “Aye? That’s good luck then.”

  She didn’t bother trying to wiggle her arm from his iron grip as he led her, not to the black door, but around the corner to Bump’s pad. A finger of fear slipped under her skin, penetrating the pleasant little fog in her brain. She’d never been to his place before.

  Terrible knocked, a syncopated pattern that sounded like a Ramones song. She looked around them; a few people caught her gaze then turned away quickly, as if she could transmit her bad fortune through her hazel eyes. If only. There was an awful lot she’d like to get rid of.

  “How’re those big sideburns working for you, Terrible? You managed to find yourself a steady ladyfriend yet?” Hell, why not stick her hand in the cage? He wouldn’t hurt her without Bump’s say-so, and if Bump had already said so she wouldn’t be standing here. She’d be in the filthy, urine-smelling alley behind the Market being beaten and puking up her guts. Sometimes her job had its advantages; roughing up a Church employee could lead to trouble.

  “Never you mind.”

  “So you have! Is she human?”