Drawn into Darkness Read online

  Lachlan regretted causing the lines of grief on Stefan’s face. Still, unable to accept that the battle might be over before it had truly begun, he plunked his mug down, sloshing coffee onto the dusty oak tabletop.

  “There must be a way. The lure demon must be defeated.”

  Stefan shook his head. “Not with these books.”

  “My only chance lies with these books.”

  “Weigh the consequences, MacGregor. Are the lives you’re trying to save worth the damage that will be done? And I don’t just mean damage to the fabric of our world or the loss of human lives, though those are certainly enough to convince me. I mean the damage to your honor as well. You’ve spent the last four hundred years trying to redeem yourself so you can join your family in the upper plane. Are you willing to throw that all away?”

  Lachlan dragged his fingers through the short locks of his hair, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. “My family never made it to the upper plane. Their innocent souls are guaranteed to burn in hell if I do no’ succeed.”

  A heavy silence fell.

  When the pause grew uncomfortable, the mage released a sympathetic sigh. “Then all I can say is, may God have mercy on you.”

  It happened quite by accident.

  Em was sitting in the assembly hall thinking about Drew when the three lame-ass geeks seated one row ahead got the best of her. They kept turning in their seats to look at her, rolling their eyes and snorting. First it was just annoying. Then her head began to pound.

  She closed her eyes in an attempt to stop the dull throb, but it just kept hammering.

  Irritation fermented into anger. The more the geeks bobbed and giggled and snorted, the angrier she got. Waves of dark thoughts poured over her, and an image of them hanging limp in a tree, necks broken, popped into her head—along with a surge of incredible pleasure. The pencil she was holding in her hand cracked and a sliver of wood bit into her palm.

  Shocked by both the intensity of her feelings and the stab of pain, she dropped the pencil.

  But the damned thing didn’t fall to her lap. Nope. It hung in the air, hovering about an inch off her thighs, bent at an odd angle and decorated with a bright smear of blood.

  Through the strands of her hair, Em quickly checked to see if the geeks were watching. They weren’t. Miraculously transformed into good little sheep, they sat straight in their chairs, listening intently as the principal presented the school’s new safety policy.

  Frowning, she stared at the floating pencil. But even as she debated how to get rid of it, the problem took care of itself. The pencil disappeared. Vanished. No puff of smoke, no flash of light. Nothing. Just gone.

  Em sat a little straighter on her folding metal chair. Wouldn’t it be cool if she could follow it? She closed her eyes and concentrated, but when she opened her eyes, she was still surrounded by brainwashed idiots.

  Oh, well. It was a thought.

  Watering the copious plants in her balcony flower boxes should have been a relaxing chore for Rachel—it usually was. The sun on her skin and the soft trickle of water in the fountain normally made her a bit sleepy. But as the afternoon breeze dried her freshly showered hair, she found herself glancing repeatedly at the balcony above, wondering if Lachlan was thinking about her as much as she was thinking about him.

  She set her copper watering can on the table, and put her palms to her burning cheeks.

  Was he reliving the damp rub of her skin against his, the intoxicatingly perfect fit of their very different bodies, and the incredible way they’d found release at precisely the same time? She wondered, because she couldn’t stop thinking about those things. She blushed every five minutes, half embarrassed, half turned-on by the racy memories.

  She plucked a wilted pink plumeria blossom from its stalk and tossed it over the balcony.

  It still amazed her that she’d had the courage to go through with it. Sex just for sex’s sake, no strings attached. Except for one wild year at college, which was almost too long ago to remember, her sex life was pretty conservative.

  Of course, today’s lovemaking didn’t compare at all to those crazy, almost thoughtless couplings in college. Maybe she was just being stupid, reading something into his actions that hadn’t really been there, but honestly, she’d never been made love to with such an obvious dedication to her pleasure, or with such a potent mix of authority and tenderness.

  An incredible experience.

  An incredible, never-to-be-repeated experience.

  The cordless phone on the Adirondack chair trilled, and Rachel’s heartbeat surged with hope. But the number on the call display brought her daydreams to a crashing halt. She mentally braced herself as she brought the phone to her ear.

  “Hello, Grant.”

  There was a brief pause, then, “Uh, hi, Rachel.”

  At two in the afternoon on a Monday, he couldn’t have been expecting her to answer the phone. He’d obviously planned to leave her a message—which meant …

  “Is my check in the mail?”

  “Jeez, Rachel, do we always have to dive right into the money stuff? Can’t you ask me, just once, how I’m doing?”

  Rachel grimaced, unwillingly drawn back into the game they always played: Rachel bad, Grant good. “How are you, Grant?”

  “Rotten. You won’t believe my life right now. My 401(k) is in the toilet, I’m knee-deep in a merger, working seventy-hour weeks, and my car just blew up. It’s going to cost me a bomb to repair.”

  “So, you aren’t sending us a check,” she concluded.

  “If I do, I’ve got no car. I’ll send the alimony check next month, when things have settled down a bit. Not that you need it with that fancy high-tech job of yours.”

  Her grip on the phone tightened. “It’s child support, not alimony. The money you send goes directly to Em. It pays for her dentist bills, her clothes, and her clarinet for band. Please remember that.”

  “Yeah, well, you could cover that stuff by yourself, especially if you sold a couple of your paintings. People seem to like them.”

  “I have only two left,” she said. “You took the rest and sold them behind my back, remember?”

  “Don’t rag on me about that. We weren’t divorced then, and I needed to pay the credit card bill. Hell, I don’t know why you make such a big fuss about it. Just go paint some more.”

  “I haven’t painted in years.” Her gaze swung to the open glass doors to the living room, where she could see the edge of her easel peeking from behind the TV unit. Dusty.

  “That’s not my problem. You did a complete one-eighty after we got married, never wanted to do anything fun anymore.”

  “My mother was sick, and we had a baby, Grant.”

  “I remember when I first met you, on the flight to New York. I thought you were this wild, sexy artist chick, hip enough to fly off to Paris for a year, wicked enough to get drunk on airline booze. I was totally bowled over. I had no idea you were in the process of turning into a psycho over your dad’s death. If I had, I’d have run for the hills.”

  A dozen responses rose to her tongue, but she squashed them all. There was no point arguing. Grant always had glib answers. She scooped a dead leaf out of the oak barrel fishpond and sprinkled goldfish food on the sun-sparkled water.

  “What time will you get here on Friday?”

  “I can’t come. Friends have invited me to their beach house to go boating.”

  “Grant, you promised. Can’t you go boating another weekend? Em’s going through some tough stuff right now.”

  “Love to, but this weekend is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Look, I gotta run. Give her a hug for me.”

  The line went dead.

  Rachel set the phone down with an arm that felt as heavy as her heart. The payment for Em’s band trip was due this month and she didn’t have the cash to ante up. Em had been looking forward to that trip for two years. It was the only reason she stayed in band—five days of living in hotels, shopping, and hanging with her G
oth friends—all far away from her tyrannical mom.

  Rachel had really been hoping that, for once, Grant would come through, but no such luck. And, of course, she was the one left breaking the bad news.

  A thrill raced across the back of Em’s neck, whisking away the last of her lingering thoughts about the pencil. She glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, four rows back, seated among a bunch of his sophomore classmates, was the new guy. He was staring at her—not in a creepy way, but in a quiet, serious way.

  Carlos.

  Could be the principal’s droning speech about the school’s zero tolerance policy on bullying had put him into a stupor and his gaze had landed on her purely by accident, but she didn’t think so. Once could be an accident. Three times, no way.

  Pleased, but determined not to show it, she threw him the most bored look ever and dropped her gaze back to her doodling. She inked another gory blood drip on the tip of the knife.

  Deeply tanned skin and obvious muscles didn’t normally do much for her, but she had to admit that Carlos Rodriguez was a hunk worthy of a few sighs.

  Attitude rolled off him in waves, from the just-try-me tilt of his head to the don’t-give-a-shit angle of his shoulders. He was a Goth like her, which gave him extra points, and the cobra tattoo on his wrist added a gritty edge to his personality—totally cool. His narrow face came awfully close to pretty, but the white scar slicing through his full bottom lip saved him.

  Still, as attractive as the whole package was, it was his eyes that got her. Dark brown and bleak as hell.

  There was a world of pain in those eyes. A dark, ugly wound that reached into his soul and ate him up, something Em could empathize with. She knew without ever having talked to him that Carlos was a kindred spirit.

  And judging by his interest, he sensed the same thing.

  The end-of-day bell would ring in about three minutes. Everyone would shuffle out of the room, make their way to their lockers, and then head home. The question of the day was, would Carlos find an excuse to talk to her in the hallway?

  She hoped so.

  The principal ended her speech on an impassioned plea to have a safe and untroubled year, and then the bell rang.

  Em stood up. Her hands grew sweaty as she gathered up her book bag. It took every ounce of willpower not to give in and peer in Carlos’s direction. Better to act as if she didn’t give a shit. That way, if he didn’t talk to her in the hall, he’d never guess how much it bothered her. She trailed the crowd out of the room and sauntered toward her locker, walking slowly to give him the chance to catch up with her—assuming he was following, of course.

  Unable to resist, she shot a quick glance back.

  And her gaze collided with a pair of long-lashed, smoky topaz eyes. Oh my God. He was right behind her.

  “Hey,” he said, unsmiling.

  “Hey.”

  She paused in front of her locker, and he stopped, too. Leaning against the next locker, silently watching her, he made her heart race. Which in turn made her cheeks hot. Grateful for the mask of pale makeup that covered her face, Em casually spun the combination on the lock with one hand.

  “You take the Almaden bus?” he asked.

  Her gaze drifted back to his face. His eyeliner extended into small teardrops beneath his eyes, a simple but angsty touch. He was taller than her by more than a foot, and she liked that. “Yeah.”

  “Cool, so do I.”

  He waited for her to pack up her knapsack, then walked with her across the grassy soccer field toward the line of yellow school buses parked on the west side of the school—closer than a casual friend would walk, almost touching.

  She snuck a peek at him.

  In spite of his height, the hem of his long black trench coat brushed the toes of his black army boots. A very impractical coat for the mid-October heat, but way cool. She nearly sighed when he flipped the hood of his sweatshirt over his shoulder-length brown hair, blocking out the sun completely.

  Em saw several girls in her class toss her envious glares. Even that bitch, Daria, who’d snickered at her hairy arms during gym and called her a troll.

  “Whatcha listenin’ to?” she asked, nodding to his iPod earbuds.

  “Sisters of Mercy.”

  She nodded, strangely disappointed. Great band, a little on the ordinary side. But hey, she was a rabid Lycia fan and they were pretty mainstream, too. Just ’cause his tastes weren’t as unique as Drew’s didn’t mean he was boring.

  And, as much as she was drawn to him, Drew didn’t make her pulse dance this way.

  They reached the sidewalk in a companionable silence. Em was already thinking about what it would be like to sit next to him on the bus—their bodies occasionally grazing, then pressing against each other every time the bus rounded a corner—when she heard the frantic, high-pitched trumpet of a car horn.

  “Em!”

  Her head swung toward the parking lot … and a mixed sensation of horror and surprise washed over her. Her mom. In that rusty, embarrassing shitbox she called a car.

  “Em!” Her mom waved from the window. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  “That your mom?”

  Em briefly considered saying no, but decided her lie would be outted far too quickly. She pitched Carlos a look she hoped said, Aren’t moms pathetic? and mumbled, “Yeah.”

  Something flickered in his eyes, something distressingly close to irritation. “Guess you won’t be taking the bus.”

  Her heart sank. “Maybe we could—”

  “See you tomorrow?”

  With growing numbness, Em nodded. She watched Carlos swagger off toward the bus, shoulders rounded, his black trench coat flapping. Some other girl would sit next to him. Not her. His first day at school, the day he’d actively be making new friends, and he was getting on the bus without her. He might end up paired with some other girl, maybe even Daria, all because her mom showed up for the first time in forever and offered her a ride home.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  Another example of how life totally sucked.

  11

  After enduring a flaming argument over the band trip and a bitterly silent trip to Safeway, Rachel had been fairly sure things couldn’t get any worse between her and Em. But she was wrong. As she and a very grim Em approached the glass doors of their apartment building, a leather-clad young man rose to his feet to greet them, all smiles.

  Drew.

  “Let me help you with those, Rachel.” He reached for two of the paper grocery bags and took them from her nerveless hands. Hefting the load with ease, he bent and kissed Em, full on the lips. “Hello, sweet.”

  A tremble rippled through Rachel, chilling her from tip to toe. This … this monster … had almost killed Lachlan last night and yet, here he was, acting as if nothing had happened. Pretending to be a normal young man.

  Drew’s gaze met hers. His smile deepened with a splash of unrepentant arrogance. “I was hoping to take Em for a short ride this afternoon, Rachel. But I know you’re not too keen on motorcycles, so I thought I’d ask your permission first.”

  “Absolutely not.” The response was out before she could stop it.

  And it earned her a dark glare from Em.

  “I’m a very good driver, and we’ll only be gone for a half hour. I won’t let anything happen to her, I promise.”

  Meeting Drew’s amused green gaze only fueled her rising panic: He knew precisely what impact he had on her. Every corkscrew twist of her gut, every terrified stumble of her heart, every strangled breath … he knew. And it made him smile. Lachlan’s warning pounded in her head. Don’t talk to him, don’t listen to a word he says, even if it involves Emily. But his words didn’t cover this particular scenario.

  She glanced at her hand.

  There, still visible in smudged ink across her trembling palm, were ten magical, hope-inspiring numbers: Lachlan’s cell phone.

  “Hold on,” she said, trying to pull off a smooth smile and failing miserably. Stepping onto
the grass, she dug her phone from her purse and dialed Lachlan’s number. The uncontrollable spasms of her fingers shrank the keypad to an impossibly small area, and she had to start over four times.

  Finally, she got it right.

  Turning her back to Drew for privacy, she waited for Lachlan to answer. One ring. Five rings. Nine rings. Nothing. She endured fifteen empty rings and numerous hopeful clicks on the line before she acknowledged the dismal truth.

  She was on her own.

  “We should take the groceries in,” Drew said kindly as she pivoted to face him once more. “The ice cream is melting.”

  Rachel simply stared back at him.

  The image of him standing in her kitchen, amiably putting away the groceries, just wouldn’t form. Instead, her brain insisted on placing a gleaming silver knife in his hands to go along with the memory of dark red blood oozing from Lachlan’s wounds.

  “Mom.” Em nudged her with her elbow. “Let’s go in.”

  Her daughter’s bright blue eyes were intent, her pale face warily hopeful. Here, she said silently, here’s your chance to make up for that last painful argument. Let him come in, and all will be forgiven.

  And Rachel truly, truly wanted to …

  But with their very lives at risk, how could she agree?

  Her gaze found Drew’s again, this time a little stronger, emboldened by righteous anger. She could not let this monster into her house. Opening her mouth, she began, “I—”

  But he preempted her, his expression very serious, his smile gone. “I can see the concern in your eyes, Rachel, and I understand how hard it is to trust me. I’m a stranger. But I swear to you, nothing will happen to Em. She’s very important to me—just as important as she is to you—and you have my word that she’ll be safe.”

  He was speaking directly to her, for her benefit alone, trying to convince her he wouldn’t harm Em. But she knew the truth about him and no words from his smooth-talking, deceitful mouth were ever going to convince her he was trustworthy.