Dark Rising Trilogy

by DeAnna Browne

  “I didn’t kill her. You did,” Peter lied effortlessly. “I tried to bring you in, but you took her as hostage.”

  “Amazing, I didn’t even get my hands bloody.”

  Peter smirked. “You don’t have to. You’ll be dead soon, along with this grandma of yours.”

  “Your parents must be so proud. You’ve grown up to kill little old ladies.” Despite Lady Katherine’s dark past, no one deserved to be a demon’s meal.

  “Ha. Ha.” Sarcasm laced his words and he nodded slightly, giving Darion barely enough time to react.

  The Soultorn hurled the knife as Darion lunged behind the couch. He shot an easy spell, sending the blaze soaring into the fireplace as a distraction.

  No matter how weak Darion was, fire would always bend to his will. But he wasn’t completely fire proof, and this Soultorn wouldn’t let him go that easy.

  The Soultorn leaped over Lady Katherine’s dead body and landed on top of the couch, knife in hand. Darion raced toward the fire, but wasn’t quick enough. The Soultorn slashed out. Pain shot up Darion’s arm.

  Turning to face him, Darion raised his forearms in defense. The Soultorn licked the blade, obviously not in any hurry to kill him. Out of the corner of his eye, Darion saw Peter smile, the sick bastard.

  Stepping back, Darion rubbed his hand over the wound, pulling power from the sacrifice. He threw his power, sending the drapes behind Peter ablaze, and strengthened his magical shield.

  The Soultorn struck out at Darion again and again. Darion dodged the blows, blocking and retreating with every hit. His movements gradually slowed, his arms heavy, as Peter attacked his defenses from across the room.

  Darion swung and missed, opening himself up as the Soultorn slammed into his chest, sending him flying back. Crashing into the wall, he slid to the floor, struggling to clear his eyes. Smoke filled his vision. Mere feet from the fireplace, the carpet and old wallpaper carried the flames.

  The Soultorn pressed forward, blade in hand. In a last ditch effort, Darion shot a hot current through the blade.

  It dropped the knife, probably due to surprise. It shrugged, not bothering to pick it up. It didn’t think it needed it anymore. And it probably was right.

  Darion attempted to stand, but a flood of magic pinned him down. Peter, damn him. This would not be a short or clean death.

  Darion remembered Becca upstairs and gathered his courage. Feeling the heat next to him, Darion stuck his arm into the blaze. It might be suicide, but it was all he had.

  Clenching his jaw, he muffled a scream as the fire burned his hand. The Soultorn lunged at him. Darion gathered his remaining strength to free himself from Peter’s restraint and embraced the Soultorn.

  The flame raced up Darion’s arm as he clung to the Soultorn, focusing his energy on protecting his body as the Soultorn rained hits on his torso. A couple ribs cracked under the pressure, and its teeth bit through his jacket.

  Darion screamed and pinned its head between his arms. The possessed body in Darion’s arms convulsed uncontrollably. Darion couldn’t see past the smoke engulfing them both, and he struggled to remain conscious from lack of oxygen.

  His grip loosened, unable to hold on any longer. The Soultorn lost consciousness, sagging lifeless on the carpet. Darion rolled away from the body, letting the fire consume the Soultorn and send it back to whatever realm in hell it came from.

  Extinguishing the controlled flames on his arms, he sucked in a lungful of air. Oxygen was great. Being alive was better, especially after a hand-to-hand fight with a Soultorn. Something he’d never done before. His hands burned like they were still on fire, but there wasn’t time to pull the heat out of them.

  Hacking and coughing, he struggled to his feet. The fire had spread to the coffee table and Lady Katherine. Peter held a cloth over his mouth, standing next to the door with a gun leveled at Darion’s chest.

  Isn’t that my luck? Peter never did play by the rules. Darion drew on the blaze and destruction to fuel his magic. But if magic was a car, he would be on the big E with the gas light flashing.

  “You always did hate to dirty your hands.” Darion coughed at the surrounding smoke. He’d been too distracted to control the blaze.

  “Where’s the girl?” Peter shouted.

  “Dead,” Darion lied.

  He felt the spirit of Lady Katherine trapped in the fire. Not noticing it before, he realized the Soultorn hadn’t finished sucking her dry.

  A new power surged through his veins. The power of death was a high that he hadn’t experienced for a long time, a high that he loathed himself for but he would use.

  “The girl, or you die.” Peter’s face was red with rage. “And I won’t shoot to kill.”

  It didn’t matter. Darion had killed his Soultorn. Peter would not let him walk away. With his increase in power, Darion threw a curse, and Peter’s gun exploded in his hand. He dropped the gun and cradled his hand, glaring at Darion.

  Only what stepped out of the fire could have kept the two men from attacking each other. It was Lady Katherine, whose corpse was covered in flames. Darion’s stomach dropped. Even as a pyro, it wasn’t something he’d seen before.

  “My babies. Where are my babies?” she cried, searching the room for the missing cats that had been chased away by the fighting.

  She approached Peter, screaming for answers. He fought back, but it was too late. Power from Lady Katherine surged through the room, like an oppressive heat that wanted to smother them both.

  Sparks shot from her body, and Darion retreated to the front door. He could no longer contain the power in the room—just ignite it.

  A searing blast roared in his ears as he flew out the front door. He tumbled onto the lawn, the heat chasing him out. On his hands and knees in the grass, he gulped in fresh air.

  He coughed, holding his ribs gently as adrenaline wore off and the pain from the Soultorn’s punches sank in. He turned to the fire that crawled up the side of the house. A single thought flew through his head, one that made him panic.

  Becca.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Smoke covered Caleb’s dream, in dense sheets. He pushed through the heavy smoke, stumbling over something, a wooden horse from when he was a child. His home was on fire. He kept moving forward, searching for his parents. Terror gripped his heart. He had to find them before they burned. Where were they?

  A scream pierced the night. Loud and clear. At first, he thought it was his mother. He ran forward, banging his legs against furniture. Maybe she was in her room. Smoke flooded his senses, blinding him. He had to save her. The cry sounded again. Loud enough to wake him from his dream.

  Frantic, he pushed himself up, crouching in his steel cage. His heart raced. It wasn’t real. The dream wasn’t real.

  The pretty girl in the cage next to his cried out again, thrashing in her sleep.

  “Shush,” an older inmate said in low tones. “Want to wake it up?”

  “Hey…” Caleb didn’t even know her name. Just the several fake ones she told him. “Candy, was it? Candy, wake up please. Cinnamon? Meredith?” he said, guessing different names.

  Her eyes flashed open, scared and panicked.

  “It was just a nightmare,” he told her. Unfortunately, with waking up in a cage, reality didn’t look much better.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded briefly. It took her a good minute to calm her breath and collect herself.

  “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

  She blew out her breath. “I think going through that once tonight is enough.”

  “Dreaming about what will happen to us?” He’d been going through the possibilities himself. Not great thoughts. She shook her head and rolled to her back. “No. Just nightmares about my past. Or a nightmare about being named Meredith,” she added sarcastically.

  Guess her name isn’t Meredith. He couldn’t imagine what this girl had gone through and wasn’t about to pry. He had lost a great life, while this girl had been forced to
live a tortured one for years.

  “So, muscles, where did Pove find you? You look fresh off the farm.”

  “Almost. Magicians burned down our farmhouse, with both of my parents inside.” Caleb picked at his pants. “I came to the city for answers, but didn’t get far.”

  She gasped slightly. “A real farm? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t very big. But it was beautiful, with a small stream running behind the house.” A wistful air entered his voice, longing for what once was.

  “You are serious.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

  “Tell me about this farm, muscles.”

  He looked over to see if she was sincere. “Really? It’s probably boring.”

  “Please. I love boring.” Then, in a softer voice, she added, “Take me away from this hell hole for little while.”

  Why not? “Where to start?”

  “Cookies,” she quickly answered. “Did your mom ever make cookies?”

  “Oh, sure. Usually for Christmas in different shapes— stars, trees, and hearts…”

  He continued talking, telling her about the frosting, and other Christmas decor. The rest of the warehouse fell quiet.

  Caleb’s smooth voice traveled softly around the room.

  He spoke of the farm. The day their dog had puppies, and how hard he cried when he realized that the Christmas ham came from their sow Sally.

  He turned his head once, to see if the blonde next to him was awake. She was on her back staring straight ahead, with silent tears streaming down her face. He turned back and started the story of learning to ride his horse bareback in the rain. He even heard a couple chuckles in the warehouse on that one.

  He was glad to talk of home. He wanted to savor every memory. Capture it if possible. If he could remember all those good times, then maybe they weren’t really dead.

  Becca shimmied through the small window and lowered herself into the bathroom, landing gracefully in a box of kitty litter. Potpourri and the stale odor of ammonia assaulted her senses.

  Gotta love cat pee. She wiped her feet on the pink bath mat and eased out into the hallway. Knife in hand, she tread lightly on the plush carpet, wary of any nearby noise. Several cats ran down the hall and disappeared into one of the many rooms.

  The first two bedrooms were painted in pastels. No cats. The next room held a small office. Only one cat hid under a table, but nothing like Darion described.

  Becca paused. Noise from the first floor traveled up the stairs at the end of the hallway. Someone was arguing. She hurried and opened the next door, something hissed.

  She backed up just in time to avoid a paw swiping at her. A white cat, one of many cats, glared at her with its tail raised.

  “Relax,” Becca said, not sure if it was to the cat or herself.

  This had to be the room. It was covered in everything cats—live ones, stuffed ones, pictures of cats, cats on throw pillows, and even sewn into a blanket hanging over the end of the bed.

  The stale musty odor and numerous sets of watchful eyes unsettled Becca. This was its own kind of twisted magic.

  She began her search with the closet and the dresser. She got a few protests from the occupants as she moved through the room, but she didn’t find anything.

  There were some coins in the antique desk, which she quickly pocketed, but they nowhere near enough. A touch of guilt gnawed at her, until she reminded herself that most of this money came from Mundanes they killed during The Rising.

  On her elbows and knees, Becca hunted under the dusty bed. With barely any light from the window, she couldn’t see anything.

  A cat screeched. Becca yanked her hand out, but not quick enough. Angry red lines streaked across her skin.

  “Damn cat,” she muttered. She repositioned herself and used her leg to sweep the cat from under the bed.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here? A naughty kitty?” A large man loomed in the doorway. Ugly tattoos, that he must have received while drunk, covered his thick neck.

  Becca scrambled out from under the bed, a flush of adrenaline restarting her heart, which had stopped when she heard his voice. She gripped the knife at her side.

  He loomed in the doorway with a sick eagerness stretching his face—a thug with a shaved head, but his dark suit spoke of money. His hulking frame barely made it through the door.

  “I didn’t realize how easy this job would be,” he rumbled. “But here you are. Almost gift wrapped for Jeremiah.”

  “I’m never easy,” she said with a false bravado, squelching the urge to flee.

  Nowhere to run. He blocked the door. She’d never make it through the window.

  Whispers stirred the air as he began a spell. Dodging closer, she slashed at his thick throat. He grabbed her wrist inches from his neck and jerked her to the side. Bending into the spin, she used the force to slam her other fist into his throat.

  He gasped in pain. The muscles in his neck tightened. He couldn’t speak at the moment, though, and that leveled the playing field—a bit. He shoved her backward, slamming her into a small desk.

  Grabbing the desk lamp, she swung it at the thug’s head. He knocked the lamp aside and sent it crashing against the wall. A cat streaked from the closet and sprinted out of the room.

  He rubbed his throat, his nostrils flaring in anger. He mouthed something, Becca could only guess it wasn’t a compliment. His arms clenched, muscles bulging in his fitted suit.

  She widened her stance. She wouldn’t go back. Not with Caleb at the slave market.

  He surged forward, lashing out with a meaty fist. She parried the heavy blows that pushed her back. The sharp edge of the desk dug into her lower back. She lashed out with her knife, making contact with his forearm. But as her knife struck, he slammed a fist into the side of her head. She flew to the floor. The knife tumbled out of her hand.

  The room tipped around her. Blinking away the starbursts that filled her vision, she pulled herself upright, using the closet door for support. The smell of smoke wafted into the room. What was happening down stairs? Pushing panic aside, she focused on the threat in front of her.

  He pulled a knife from his boot, steadily approaching.

  “I’m done playing, kitten,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Maybe, I’ll do this without magic. Just for fun.”

  “If you let me go, we can share the money.”

  The mention of money caught his attention. “What money?” his voice rasped.

  “This old lady’s loaded. I’m sure it’s more than what Jeremiah’s paying you.”

  “No one crosses Jeremiah.” His words were fierce, but his face lit up a second later. “But there’s no reason, I can’t have both.”

  Then he charged. She spun to the side and at the same time an explosion rocked the house.

  They both stumbled. Quickly regaining her footing, she slammed her boot into the side of his knee. A sick crunch echoed around the room, and the man roared with pain. He leaned against the desk.

  She grabbed her knife off the floor. Before she could attack, something threw her back. Magic. She struck the wall and collapsed on the floor.

  Pain radiated through her body as if she had been run over, by a truck—a really big one. She blinked away tears and breathed through the pain. Then she realized another threat, possibly greater.

  Fire.

  Smoke trailed into the room. She began coughing, the smell overcoming her.

  One problem at a time.

  The man rested against the table, swearing at Becca. She stood slowly, muscles screaming in protest. She didn’t know how to counter this magic, but she had to try.

  A warm hand came down on her shoulder. “Let me.”

  Relief coursed through her at the sight of Darion.

  He spoke a curse as he approached the man. Lifting a fallen lamp off the floor, Darion bashed him in the head. No fair. It took magic to make that move work.

  Becca regained her footing, resting a hand on the bed.

&nb
sp; Darion searched her body, seeing the blood that covered her. “Where are you hurt?”

  “Everywhere.” She meant it to come out sarcastic, but instead it sounded beaten. Numb from the fight, a coldness settled in her bones.

  “Where’s the blood coming from?” His voice frantic.

  She shook her head before she remembered her voice. “It’s his.”

  Darion caught his breath but he didn’t release her. “We need to go. The house is on fire.”

  “Figured. You did this?” she asked, her head pounding.

  “Sort of.” He smirked. “We’ll have to head out the window.”

  He opened the window and a fresh breeze entered. The pain in Becca’s head cleared a bit and she focused on their original goal—finding the money. She scanned the room searching for some nook or cranny where it could be.

  On top of the thick bedspread, a gray cat sat upright with dark eyes. It posed like a sphinx, perfectly tranquil, statuesque, despite the fight or the smoke that crept into the room. The rest of the cats sprinted out the open window.

  Becca didn’t know many felines, but she guessed that this wasn’t normal. When searching a witch’s house, anything was possible with magic. “One second.”

  Darion grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

  This cat had to be magicked or some type of demon. Who knew with those dark eyes? “Wait. The money.”

  “No time.”

  She shook free of his hand. “Just a sec.”

  A picture of a young girl stood on the nightstand next to the bed. Becca scratched the cat on its neck and felt a deep purr. “Help me out, sweetie.” She picked up the cat, and found a thick throw pillow behind it.

  Could it be that easy? Was the money in the pillow? Hiding in plain sight and guarded by a magicked cat?

  “Come on. I can’t control this anymore. We have to jump.” Urgency and anger laced Darion’s words.

  She grabbed the pillow and the cat and crawled through the window out onto the roof. Smoke carried up from the first floor. The roof warmed beneath her feet. Climbing down the way she came was out of the question. And having a pyromancer next to her didn’t resolve the fear that she might burn to death.