Born in Darkness Page 18

  Ignoring my own prior experience, I pulled open the door and stepped inside.

  The dim interior was a shock, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light. When they did, I realized that the back section was brighter, and immediately beyond a curtain of beads, I saw a guy hunched over a woman’s half-bare breast, his long hair swept back in a ponytail. His attention stayed focused on his customer until he shut off the needle, and then he looked in my direction.

  “Yo. I’ve got about five more minutes. You looking to get a tat?”

  “Yeah,” I said without hesitation. “I am.”

  “Cool. Got a design in mind?”

  “I want a name,” I said. “Maybe some sort of picture, too. I don’t know what.”

  “Look around. Anything in those books by the window I can do for you. Price is on the sheet.”

  He turned back to the girl without waiting for my reply, which left me no place to go except to the books. I was looking at intricate angelic designs when I heard someone move behind me.

  I turned, expecting the guy or his customer. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with a woman who had to be on the bad side of eighty.

  “Forty-nine,” she said. “But don’t apologize,” she added, before I even had time to realize that I hadn’t actually spoken my remark.

  “Another one,” I muttered, considering taking my business to the next tat house down the road.

  “He’d never forgive me if I scared you off,” the woman said. She moved to a darkened corner and eased herself into a stained velvet chair. “Please. Sit.”

  I eyed the hard folding chair opposite her, then listened as she laughed.

  “I’m the one pushing ninety,” she said. “My bones need the cushions.”

  “I’m so sorry about that,” I said, her casual demeanor drawing me in, if not making me downright comfortable. “I never would have said that out loud.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a good girl.” She leaned over to pat my hand, and when she smiled, I saw that her teeth were stained brown, her gums red and swollen. I wanted to ask why—what medical anomaly had made her this way? But despite her graciousness and my own raw edges, I couldn’t bring myself to be quite that rude.

  “A disease would be the easy answer,” she said, her smile easing my embarrassment. “No, it is my gift. It preys on me.”

  “You’re Madame Parrish.”

  “I am.”

  “So what can you do?” I asked. “Your gifts, I mean. Read minds, I guess. Do you also see the future?”

  Her brows rose slowly as she peered at me. “You sound dubious. You, who have surely seen things much more curious.” She cocked her head, examining me. “You will learn to control it you know.”

  “What?”

  “What you see,” she said matter-of-factly. “It was an unexpected gift. Unknown even to the giver. A legacy from the one who came before. But you will learn, my dear. It will take practice and focus and great strength, but it can be done. I promise that you will learn.”

  I licked my lips, suddenly not certain I should be there. Not certain I should be talking with this woman who could pick facts from my mind as easily as Clarence did, and who knew of my visions, and seemed to understand them better than I did.

  “Not better. But I do have a different perspective. And, perhaps, I can help.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  Her smile was soft, grandmotherly. “You want to learn how to close the door on your thoughts. Even now, you wish you could.”

  “I could if I wanted to,” I said, obstinately. “Children’s songs. Works like a charm.”

  “On some. Perhaps. But there is a better way.”

  I tilted my head, not sure whether I trusted her, but definitely wanting to hear what she had to say.

  “A Secret Keeper. To do what you must to block your mind, you will have to find a Secret Keeper.”

  “A what?”

  But she only smiled. “It is difficult, what you do. Being two people.” I gasped, but she didn’t slow. “That will change with time, too, and you will be only one.”

  I pushed up out of my chair. “I’m sorry. I should go.” I brushed past her. “I’m not even sure why I came here.”

  “Ah, but I am. You wish to know if you are doing the right thing. The right thing, for the right reasons.”

  I stopped, my hand on the door, then turned back to face her. “Am I?”

  She shrugged. “These questions of what is right and what is wrong. Of what is good and what is evil. They are not black and white. And sometimes we make the wrong choice for the right reason.”

  “And my choices? Are they wrong?”

  The lines in her face deepened with her smile. “My dear. Only time can tell you that.”

  27

  I can’t say I was thrilled by the discovery of Clarence sitting on a portable stool in front of my door. I’d spent the last two hours lying facedown on a tattoo table, an experience that was both painful and surprisingly relaxing. I’d de-stressed, pondered my problems, and now all I wanted to do was veg with mindless television.

  Alas, that wasn’t to be.

  “You over it? Centered? Got your chakras all lined up nice and neat?”

  I stared down at him. “If you mean am I feeling better, then yes. Thanks so much for asking.” I considered sharing the meandering path my mind had taken me on that night, but I wasn’t really in the mood. If he wanted to know, he could tug it out of my head himself.

  He shrugged, then stood up, folded the stool, and hoisted it under his arm. Then he barged past me, leaving the stool propped up against the hall table. I cringed, certain the aluminum would scratch the finish. Just in case, I moved it aside and rubbed my finger over the wood. Still pristine.

  By the time I draped my coat on the rack and made it into the living room, Clarence was already rummaging in the fridge. “Getting pretty thin in here. You can’t find time to schlep down to a grocery store?”

  “You been sitting outside my door for how long? You can’t walk to the laundry room and buy yourself a Diet Coke?”

  “They don’t got what I want in the laundry room,” he said, rummaging around until he came up with a beer. “Ha! Always check the vegetable crisper.” He popped the lid and chugged. Then he belched and sighed. Nice.

  I shoved past him to open the refrigerator door myself. Because I wasn’t inclined to have beer for breakfast, I grabbed a bottle of water. He was right about one thing—somewhere between training, waitressing, and visiting my past, I needed to add a trip to the grocery store to the agenda.

  “So what were you doing waiting in the hall?” I asked, once we were both comfortably settled in the living room, me on the sofa with my feet on the coffee table and him in an overstuffed armchair that gripped him like an enthusiastic lover.

  “Working up a thirst,” he said, then raised the bottle to his lips to prove the point.

  My reaction might well be considered gloating, but I couldn’t help it. I finally got it—he wasn’t allowed to come into the apartment uninvited anymore. I’d passed the test. I’d proved I really was Prophecy Girl, and that meant that my place was mine.

  “You can’t come in anymore,” I sang, holding off on going so far as to hum the “Hallelujah Chorus.” “It’s my place now. Not a loaner. Mine.”

  “Don’t get too cocky. I’m still your boss.” But I swear I saw a smile when he said it.

  “Mine, mine, mine.” I knew I’d crossed the line into irritating, but I couldn’t help it. I’d actually accomplished something in this freakish new life. I’d passed a test and made headway. And that my friends, was sweet.

  “Does this mean my head is off-limits, too?”

  “Heh. You gonna give me grief about that? Not like you haven’t figured out ways to keep me out,” he said, then started humming a bar from “Conjunction Junction.”

  I blushed, which pissed me off. “It’s my head. You shouldn’t be allowed in without permission.” I
cranked up a rousing chorus from Schoolhouse Rock and reminded myself of what Madame Parrish had told me: a Secret Keeper. Whatever that was, I needed to find one.

  Clarence swallowed a mouthful of beer, then shrugged. “Yeah, well, I’m getting into your head less and less. The song thing and . . . ” He trailed off with a shrug, then took a long pull on his beer.

  I narrowed my eyes, my antennae going up. “What? You can’t get into my head as easily anymore? Why?”

  He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to, because right then I knew. I knew, and it sickened me.

  Clarence couldn’t get inside a demon’s head.

  And I was absorbing demonic essence. Every time I killed with a blade, I was becoming more and more demonic. Less me. Less human.

  Dear God.

  I sank onto the couch, then pressed my fingertips to my temples.

  “Eh, don’t get your panties in a wad. You’re safe. I still got a line into your head.”

  I looked up at him. “But I’m right. It’s exactly what I was saying at Zane’s. The demons I kill—they’re changing me.”

  “Kid, you changed the minute you ended up in Alice’s body. Don’t split hairs. You’re here doing a job.”

  “But—”

  “Dammit, girl. Didn’t we already tell you? You can handle this; otherwise you wouldn’t be who you are. You tuck it away. You don’t let it turn you. You use it. Use the demon inside for good and you’ve got yourself some damn sweet poetic justice. Capisce?”

  I considered what he was saying and had to admit that despite his typically irritating way of saying it, my froggy friend had a point. Take the demon in. Twist it around. Use the strength and essence to take out more demons. In with the bad air, out with the good. Sort of like money laundering for demonic essence.

  It wasn’t perfect, but at least the image gave me something to hold on to. A way to do this without feeling like I was sinking deeper into the pit even while I was struggling to climb out.

  “So can we move on?” he asked, sounding particularly pissy.

  “Sure. So, uh, why are you here?”

  “The way you walked out, pet. I was worried. Wanted to check on you. Make sure you were okay.”

  “Make sure I hadn’t decided to back off? Decided not to do this thing anymore?”

  “Did you?”

  I shook my head, my thoughts from the night swirling inside me. “I’m good,” I said. “Or I’m as good as I can get, I guess.” I looked at him straight on. “At any rate, I’m down with the job. Warts and all.”

  “Glad to hear it, kid. Let’s get you back to Zane. Get you training.”

  I thought with longing of a nice, warm bed and knew that wasn’t going to happen. And, actually, I was okay with that. Because the thought of smashing down some demons was equally appealing, and it got more so as I thought of it. Thought of the strength that would fill me and the darkness that would ooze through me. I told myself I didn’t want it, but in the deep, secret part of myself, I liked that it was there. That darkness gave me the strength to kill and the wherewithal to win. And, dammit, I wanted to win.

  I got my chance soon enough. Zane was waiting for us when we arrived at his basement, and he put me in the ring without preamble. Before I knew it, I was jabbing the heel of my hand up toward a demon’s nasal orifice. It growled and snarled, greenish snotlike stuff dripping from its eye sockets as it lunged for me, apparently pissed off that I’d gotten in more than my fair share of whacks and still remained relatively unscathed. Relatively being the operative word.

  I was alive. I was well. And I wanted to stay that way.

  My blade was tight in my hand just where it was supposed to be, and I pounced, dodging around the demon’s outstretched limbs to grasp it around the torso with one arm even as I sliced its throat with the other.

  I drew in a deep breath and leaped back as it shook with death throes, a surge of power filling me even as life spilled out of it. A surge so rich and liquid it was almost sexual, the rush of blood through my body almost orgasmic. I let it ripple through me, soaking it in, letting it fill me. Letting it please me.

  But whatever pleasure I’d drawn from the kill evaporated when I looked down at my body and saw that I was completely covered in a thin layer of green slime.

  Nice.

  I bit back a gag. Nasty price to pay for a rush of power and strength.

  I got a rag and started cleaning myself up, my body still humming from the kill. “Next,” I demanded with an easy grin, but before Zane had time to lure my next victim into the cage, I doubled over, clutching my arm in pain.

  “Lily?”

  “My arm,” I managed, as Clarence jogged over from where he’d been watching on the sideline. “Oh, shit, my arm.”

  I thrust it out in front of me, certain a million fire-tipped needles were embedded in my flesh. Instead, I saw that the Aztec-like symbol had come to life, the strange pattern now seeming to dance upon my flesh. “Holy shit.”

  “About time,” Clarence said, his voice full of eager anticipation.

  “You didn’t tell me it was going to hurt so much,” I raged.

  “Blood,” Clarence said, moving toward me with his knife. “It eases the pain.”

  The pain was so great that I barely noticed when he sliced my arm, then smeared the blood over the symbol. He was right; the pain lessened almost immediately, and I sighed with relief, and with trepidation. How many times was I going to have to experience that before this adventure was over?

  Clarence turned to Zane, his expression serious. “Make her ready. Quickly.”

  Zane nodded, then cocked his head. “This way,” he said, moving like a panther across the training room, his native sensuality clinging to him like early-morning dew. A sensuality I’d absorbed but had not yet learned to control.

  He stopped in front of a gray, industrial-style cabinet, then turned to me, his gaze both warm and demanding. “It is unfortunate that you are undertaking this mission before dark, ma fleur. In the middle of the night, you can get away with carrying much more than mere blades.”

  He glanced at my thigh and the blade that was holstered there. The blade that had killed him, actually. A state of affairs about which he held no grudge.

  “I thought I had to kill with the blade.”

  He grinned. “And I thought you wanted weapons that would slow the beasts down.”

  He reached for the two steel handles that protruded from the cabinet, turned them, then pulled the doors open with a flourish. The inside gleamed like a Gothic slasher movie gone bad. Crossbows, mace, daggers, and halberds, along with your standard switchblades, swords, and scary-looking hunting knives.

  I whistled through my teeth, then pulled my hand back when I realized I was reaching out to snag a weapon without invitation.

  Zane noticed, too. “You are eager, n’est-ce pas? Bien. The more primed you are, the more focused you will be.”

  “This stuff’s for me?”

  “Eventually.” He grabbed a simple switchblade from the middle shelf. “As I said, these weapons are for the night.”

  “So whether or not I’m sliced down because I’m under-armed depends on the time of day I go hunting? Gates of hell, remember? Nasty, evil demons, right? So forgive me for being dense, but I’m thinking that going out with a broadsword in broad daylight is a much better plan. Trust me,” I said, thinking of the demons in the alley. “The other guys aren’t going to hold back on weaponry.”

  “I assure you, this blade is serious enough.”

  He pressed the switch and the blade zinged out, the steel glinting in the harsh light provided by the single, bare bulb that burned above the cabinet.

  He held it out for me, and I took it. My fingers brushed his palm as I did, and with that minimal touch, my body burst into an electric overload of sensual awareness.

  I snatched my hand away, afraid to let it grow.

  I looked up, not on purpose, but as if my eyes were drawn to his face. His eyes, dark and k
nowing, watched me impassively. But his mouth curved, ever so slightly, in the faintest hint of a smile.

  “It is good, I think, ma fleur.”

  “What is?”

  “The connection.” His thumb absently brushed his chest, the movement seemingly unthinking, but I knew better. He moved a step closer, and I caught the musky scent even as the beads of sweat on his smooth scalp and forearms glistened. “Who knows what will happen if we let it grow, eh, ma chérie?”

  I stepped backward with a regretful shake of my head. Zane cocked his, examining me with thoughtful eyes. “Interesting.”

  “That I would say no to a man of your great charms?”

  “Mais, oui. And also, that there is another. I am correct, am I not? Who is he? This man who stays your hand? A remnant of your life before? Or a new fascination?”

  I forced myself not to look guiltily in Clarence’s direction. If either of them learned that Deacon was the object of my interest . . .

  I forced my thoughts back to the moment. “The only thing I’m fascinated with right now is that blade.” I nodded at the knife. “And I don’t think that my libido is relevant to this mission. Do you?”

  “Touché.” He held out his hand. “Give me your palm.”

  I hesitated, realizing what he intended to do. The knife at my thigh belonged to me. This switchblade, however, had yet to be marked.

  “You hesitate now?” he asked, amusement in his voice. “I can see the demons already quivering with fear.”

  I sneered at him and stuck out my hand. “Shut up and cut me, already.”

  The blade sliced through my palm, and I bit back a wince, not wanting to show pain. Not wanting to react at all.

  He wiped off the blade, then retracted it and slapped the weapon into my hand. I flinched against the sting of it on my cut palm. But the truth of it was that the wound was already starting to mend. By the time I approached my quarry, I would be fully healed.

  “All right,” I said, after taking a deep breath for courage. “Where do I go now?”

  “Now, chérie, you go change.”

  “Huh?” asked, but Clarence stepped up in response, pressing a bundle of black cloth into my arms.