When Darkness Falls - Six Paranormal Novels in One Boxed Set

by Shalini Boland

  His breath was hot against my neck, and a fluttering repeated in my stomach. He touched his lips to the hollow beneath my ear, then he buried his head against my shoulder.

  “I want to be with you. To not resist the urges you create,” he murmured against my neck, “but more than anything, I am compelled to protect you. Compelled beyond reason, perhaps, but I know I must. What happened earlier today, outside the diner . . . ”

  “I’m glad you kissed me,” I said with sudden boldness.

  He sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I can’t let you get hurt.”

  “I’ve made it this far,” I said quietly. “Still in one piece, too.”

  His jaw tensed. “That’s not the kind of hurt I mean.”

  I knew that. I knew he didn’t want to hurt me physically or emotionally. And I was trying not to get attached. Really and truly.

  Some things were beyond my control.

  “This wouldn’t be a problem if we could age together.” I regretted the words almost as soon as I’d spoken them.

  Charles scoffed. “Many would kill for immortality.”

  “All I meant—”

  “Would you sacrifice your way of life for me? Or do you expect only the reverse?”

  I didn’t want to be selfish, but, when it came to this one thing, I had to be. As much as I wanted to explore the possibilities of getting more involved with him, I refused to allow myself to commit when we had something as huge as immortality standing between us. Maybe I wasn’t capable of keeping strong against my desires, but I would fight to protect my heart.

  The front door rattled as Adrian stepped inside and stomped snow from his tidy black dress shoes. “My apologies. Am I interrupting?”

  I stood. “No. We were waiting for you.”

  I turned back to Charles, frowning.

  He stood and kissed my forehead, then whispered low in my ear, “We’ll figure things out. I promise.”

  He continued over to the front door and clapped his hand against Adrian’s arm. “Good to see you. Come sit.”

  Adrian pulled a stack of books from a navy-blue messenger bag and stretched his arm to set them on the coffee table, keeping the furthest possible distance from me.

  “These may help, though I must warn you, they contain some . . . non-traditional views. And,” he said, taking some small USB-port-type thing from his pocket, “there’s always the Internet.”

  “Ha!” I said, trying to contain my laughter. “The Internet.”

  “Why do you say ‘ha’?” His brow furrowed as though I’d suddenly grown a third arm. He slid the device across the coffee table toward me. “That is D-connect.”

  I examined the wireless card, studying the red encircled symbol of a snake on the side. “What is this?”

  Adrian grinned. “Something we should not have in our possession. Queen Callista—and anyone else on the Maltorim—would impose some undesirable consequences for such an offense. The alterations I’ve made should ensure that doesn’t come to pass.”

  Charles cleared his throat.

  “I should say, actually, that Charles is the one responsible for the alterations. He placed an electronic leech on the card, thus erasing data as entered. Activity cannot be tracked.”

  Charles tapped his fingers against the coffee table. “It’s not perfect.”

  “How does it work?” I asked.

  “As an Internet card would, though the websites are different. Here,” Adrian said, taking out a laptop and booting up. “I’ll show you. What are we searching for?”

  “Anything pertaining to a relative of mine, Elizabeth Parsons, or other spirit elementals.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Witches.”

  He brought up an online supernatural database and left me to browse the selection, but nothing caught my eye. Charles took over, while I looked through the hard-copy books Adrian had brought.

  I settled on The History of Witches and returned to my seat. A lot of work had gone into making this book: hand-sewn binding, pages creased with a polished piece of bone. Definitely one-of-a-kind.

  The couch shifted as Charles settled beside me with the laptop. Adrian grabbed a book and sat in an adjacent recliner.

  “The spirit elementals were chosen around the time the Salem witch trials began,” Adrian said. “In effect, they ended up being called ‘Witches’, even though only one true elemental was hanged.”

  “That’s what I’m looking for.” I cracked open the book in my lap. “Information on that one witch. She’s not listed in the traditional histories, right?”

  “I’m not sure. Admittedly, I’ve never had any reason to look into this.”

  I skimmed the Table of Contents and flipped to the first section, marked ‘Victims’, which listed the names of all the people killed over the years for ‘witchcraft’. The list contained two sections: Humans, Witches. If the section had only listed one name, it would’ve been sickening, but the way pages spilled on, name after name, was nothing short of horrifying.

  All those innocent people.

  I scrolled through the list of humans first, and, nearing where my ancestor’s name might be, I held my breath. Did I want her to be human? What if she was—would it mean I’d never escape the whispering curse? Were the two things even related?

  Elizabeth’s name was not on the list. I scanned a second time, and my concerns doubled. What if she wasn’t on either list?

  The supernatural list was significantly shorter, the cause of death for those listed not being attributed to the trials but simply to having been killed during those times. I trailed my finger over the names. Halfway down the page, I found her: Elizabeth Parsons, 1674-1692. The only elemental hanged during the Salem witch trials. Others had died from typical deaths, such as old age, sickness, or murders unrelated to the trials.

  She’d died at age eighteen . . . the same age I was when the hissing in my brain started.

  I glanced from the page to Charles and Adrian, now buried in their own research, and decided to read a bit more before sharing what I’d found.

  Nothing else caught my attention until I began reading about the Universal Necessity of Witches.

  Humans had fallen to the practice of killing the elementals, believing them to be accursed, naming them as witches. The penalty of the claims resulted in the death of many innocent humans. And so, at the time of the Salem witch trials, coinciding with the dual-bred cleansing, the Universe chose the spirit elementals—witches.

  Their immortality was not tied to their nature, however, as was true of other elementals. Instead, their immortality existed in their magic, carried through their bloodlines. These were the most vulnerable of the elementals, but, so long as their powers were used for good, they could perform without limits. However, should they choose a darker path, their magic would draw harm to themselves.

  Okay . . . so not what Charles had told me. Charles believed the magic of those elementals had died along with their human bodies.

  The Maltorim continued to lead the genocide against the Universe’s command, and the spirit elementals, being under attack themselves, did little to slow their efforts.

  However, in time, the dual-breeds dwindled so low in number that the war subsided to quieter efforts. When the spirit elementals died, their magic was halved and passed on to their descendants. With each passing generation, the magic halved again, and after several centuries, the witches’ powers tapered away to virtually nil.

  Because the efforts had failed, and the witches were so often in danger of persecution, they never had the chance to use their powers. The Universe chose no further spirit elementals.

  The section defining spirit elementals said they kept the same life expectancy as any other human, though rumor spread of witches who gained immortality through being turned by the Cruor. This weakened their powers, but left them with more tolerance to sunlight than their makers.

  After the book’s sixth chapter, I settled on the floor, lying on my stomach as I leafed through
page after page. I skipped past the witch trials, covering the Middle Ages, Early Modern Europe, and the Modern Era. They’d taught us about all that in high school, and I’d studied even more extensively in college. The eighth chapter grabbed my attention: Spirit Elementals—The Genetic Legacy of Witches.

  I read a few pages, then stood, finally having found something of use. Apparently, there was more to ancestral magic than the ‘halving’ rule.

  I held the open book in the crook of my arm. “I got something.”

  Charles and Adrian set their books aside and focused on me.

  “This Chapter on Genetic Legacy says the descendants of spirit elementals are at times granted their ancestor’s magic on loan. It can manifest in a small burst of power or may develop over time, though most descendants are unaware of their potential.”

  Adrian gave me an empty look and tossed his dreadlocks over his shoulder. “What does it mean?”

  “It means I might be able to borrow my ancestor’s powers.”

  Adrian shook his head. “I mean, how does the information relate to you?”

  “Oh, right.” I brought the book over to Charles and Adrian, flipped to the front, and pointed to Elizabeth’s name. “That ancestor of mine? Well, she was a spirit elemental. Which makes me—”

  “The descendant of a witch,” Charles finished. He leaned back into the sofa, interlocking his fingers behind his head. He stared at the ceiling and pressed his lips together. Finally, his gaze shifted back. “So you have the potential to acquire her abilities. What are they? How do you tap into them, and would you even want to?”

  Did I want supernatural abilities? Not exactly. I just wanted to silence the voices in my head. But maybe learning more about my ancestor’s powers would help me protect myself from the Cruor, should we ever cross paths again. It might even mean being able to protect Charles if he embarked on the journey to relinquish his Cruor side and grow old with me.

  I held the book up. “Adrian—do you have more like this?”

  “What do you have in mind, and do you truly suppose the information would make any difference?”

  I didn’t ruffle at the condescending edge to his voice. I sensed Adrian never took things like ‘feelings’ into account. He just wanted to find solutions and implement them.

  After stacking the book on the coffee table pile, I walked to the window. Light from streetlamps glinted off the snow floating to the streets. The old man across the road, wearing a thick plaid coat, frigidly shoveled snow from his driveway. He paused a moment, staring over at me, but I didn’t look away. Everyone stared at me.

  I let out a deep breath. “Scrying would be a good start and can also be done with fire, which might be best since I’m a fire sign.”

  I kept my back to them, hoping to conceal any evidence on my face that I was hiding something. Yes, I wanted to protect myself. But I also wanted to end my family’s curse. “And might you have anything on the effects of magic on the mind?”

  Those words having been spoken, I turned to face them. No one flinched. My request had been vague enough. Then again, what were the chances Adrian would bring me a book about hearing voices?

  Adrian nodded. “I will check my collection and drop anything relevant off here.”

  “Wonderful.” I smiled over at him. “Where do you get these books anyway?”

  “The library.”

  I lifted another book from the table and fanned the pages. “I would have noticed something like this at the library.”

  “Different library, Miss Sophia,” he said in his usual refined articulation, a bit of friendliness hidden beneath his stuffy conventions.

  “So this library just gave you these books?” I asked, smirking.

  “I worked there for a time. When they sought to have some books destroyed, I offered my services.” He grinned mischievously. “I, of course, did nothing of the sort. I realized the Maltorim only sought to hide the truth behind their efforts to eliminate the dual-natured, thus I hid the books instead.”

  I hated this mysterious Maltorim and that there wasn’t something more we could do to stop them. But while I might never save all the dual-breeds, I might be able to harness enough magic to protect Charles and myself.

  “Please, bring more books if you can.”

  “I will,” Adrian promised.

  As I watched him leave, the young woman I’d seen in the street earlier reappeared outside the window, this time standing in Charles’ yard. The breeze swayed the leaves in the trees behind her, but her hair and nightgown were unmoving. The more she closed in with her gaze fixed on me, the more I hoped answers would quickly come.

  {fifteen}

  ON THE MORNING OF YULE, I woke with a strong sense of purpose. I’d spent the last couple of weeks reviewing some books Adrian had dropped off. I hadn’t found out anything more about my heritage or curse, but I had found out how to help Charles become a pure Strigoi.

  I set a tray of chocolate chip pumpkin spice cookies on a rack in the kitchen to cool. Outside, the melted snow had caked dead leaves to the yard and sidewalk. The surrounding houses showed no trace of the season, overstuffed black trash bags stacked high along the roadside, each yard an immaculate carbon copy of the last.

  Charles and I had been dating for over three months now, and while I wasn’t seeking a commitment—not now, anyway—I wanted to know if a future between us was even possible. Now I knew it was, but that was entirely up to him.

  I headed down the hall to his room and pushed open his bedroom door. His blue plaid comforter covered him from head to ankles, only his feet peeking out to hang over the edge of the bed.

  I sat beside him and pulled the comforter away from his face. “Charles!”

  He jolted upright. “Huh? What?” His gaze darted around until his attention settled on me. Confusion slipped from his features and a crooked grin worked into place. He pulled me onto the bed and propped himself on one elbow.

  I giggled and poked his chest. “You overslept. I ate breakfast without you.”

  “Oops,” he said, walking his fingers up my belly, between my breasts. “I was out late. Hunting.”

  “You at least have to get up to open your gift.”

  Charles shoved his blanket away and tossed his legs over the side of the bed. His feet thudded against the hardwood as he stood. My gaze drifted downward, his flannel pajama pants slipping lower on his hips to reveal the upper crest of his butt. I bit back a smile.

  He glanced over his shoulder, tugging up his pants, and kissed my cheek before stepping into the master bathroom—another one of his renovations.

  I flopped back against his pillow. It still smelled like him—like vanilla and sandalwood and musk. I couldn’t deny my attraction to him, which seemed to be taking over more with each passing day, but we’d never made it beyond what Lauren called the ‘heavy petting’ stage.

  Truth was, that was already a lot further than I’d gone with any man before. But so what if I was a late bloomer? Not everyone started dating in high school. At least that was what I’d always told myself.

  Besides, I wasn’t sure it was right to be intimate with Charles when I couldn’t be completely honest with him. Would he still want to be with me if I did tell him everything? Ever since I’d told Ivory, she rarely answered my calls, and we’d been friends for years.

  Maybe first, before worrying about sharing my secrets, it would be best to find out if a future between us was even possible, though he wouldn’t like what needed to be done to make that happen.

  Charles emerged shirtless from the bathroom, the muscles in his stomach stacked down to where his jeans rested at his hips. My heart thumped against my lungs, and I hopped to my feet. I wanted to run my hands over the muscles of his shoulders and press my cheek against his bare chest, but I remained firmly planted where I stood.

  He smirked as he pulled a black and grey striped sweater over his head, and I sighed as all that beauty was hidden from view.

  “Just going to run a com
b through my hair,” he said.

  “To sit in the living room?” I grabbed his hand and tugged him closer, snaking my arms around his waist. “You look good with bed-head. Reminds me of the night we met.”

  He planted a gentle kiss on my lips, then grabbed my hand and led me out to the living room. We sat on the floor beside our potted pine tree decorated with candy canes and pinecones and a popcorn garland. I insisted he open his gift first. He peeked into the silver gift bag, removed the pocket watch, and smiled at the inscription.

  “‘It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see’,” he read.

  “Henry David Thoreau.”

  “This is perfect, Sophia.” He smiled, then reached behind him and handed me a box wrapped in recycled paper. “Now your turn.”

  I ripped a small area of the wrapping, and a gold foil box peaked out. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Open it.”

  I tore the rest of the paper away and lifted the lid to the box. Cushioned inside was a spiral bracelet, threaded with iridescent glass balls of gold and garnet and plum, accented with tiny pearls and crystals.

  The air rushed from my lungs in a sigh. “Oh. Charles, it’s . . . amazing.”

  I was relieved to find the bracelet fit perfectly. Only Grandfather Dunne had ever known to buy me bracelets small enough not to slip off.

  I lied back and stared up at pinecones in our tree. Charles was perfect for me in every way but one: he was immortal. I would age, and he would not. How weird would that eventually become?

  How could I make sense of all this—of my feelings for him and the reality that a future together was unreasonable?

  Charles propped himself on his elbow beside me. “Something’s wrong.”

  I rolled to my side, resting my head in the palm of my hand. My legs stretched out, though my feet didn’t reach far past his knees. I was looking at our feet only because I feared what I might find if I looked in his eyes—not just in his expression, but in my heart as well.