Darker Days

Chapter Four

My commute from the office to home was a tough one—through the back door and up a set of narrow stairs to our apartment. The carpet was worn to the wood in the middle of each step, and the fourth, fifth, and seventh stairs creaked. I’d lived here all my life, same as Mom. The building had been in our family for generations. Once an old barn, the bottom was long ago converted into a makeshift office, and the upstairs, a living area.

The apartment was small—I guessed none of the Darkers before us had exceptionally large families—two bedrooms, one bath, and an eat-in kitchen. It was fine. Big enough for me and Mom, and as far as I was concerned, comfy. More space meant more to clean, and neither one of us could be considered domestic goddesses. We didn’t even own a vacuum.

Having nowhere else to go, Lukas convinced Mom to let him sleep in the office. Honestly, I was pretty shocked when she agreed. She had a strict no personal involvement with clients policy. Yet another thing that had come from her relationship with Dad. That was, until I realized she probably wanted to keep an eye on Lukas. Setting Wrath loose on the town would make her twitchy. I knew how her brain worked. She’d made sure I went up to bed long before she did. If I had to guess, she’d put multiple wards in place that would alert her to any funky business.

Despite having what was, for all intents and purposes, an ancient evil cooling his heels on our office couch, I fell asleep fast. I was in the middle of a pretty awesome dream involving me, some chocolate covered popcorn, and a nice quiet corner of a deserted island when a loud crash jarred me awake.

Throwing aside the covers, I jumped out of bed and sprinted into the hall. I skidded to a stop in front of Mom’s door and pushed it open a crack. She was safe and curled under the covers, sleeping peacefully. It was kind of irritating. The woman could sleep through an alien invasion complete with a marching band to announce their presence. Me? A fly farted downtown and I was up.

Another bang.

I took off down the hall, sock-clad feet sliding on the scuffed hardwood as I rounded the corner. The noise had come from downstairs.

From the office.

Lukas.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I burst through the door. I don’t know what I expected to find. Catch him doing something evil? Making the neighborhood pets go rogue? Maybe inviting all his Sin buddies in for a late night raid on the fridge…

What I found was him standing in the middle of the room frowning at the floor. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but when they did, I saw his right hand was bleeding onto a broken glass at his feet.

He looked up. “I didn’t mean to—”

I walked around him and went to the hall closet to grab the broom and dustpan. While I was at it, I made a pit stop in the bathroom and pulled out the first aid kit and a roll of paper towels.

Once the broken glass was cleaned up, I nodded to the pooling blood. “Trying to refinish the floor with your guts?”

“I cut myself.”

“Ya think?” I motioned for him to move closer. When he didn’t budge, I grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. He was surprisingly warm. Not sure why, but I’d expected something cold. In my experience, most evil things were cold.

The glass had sliced open the entire center of his hand, and I was thankful blood didn’t eek me out. My best friend Kendra would have passed out by now. “What happened?”

He didn’t seem bothered by the gaping chasm hacked into his palm or the river of blood gushing all over our floor. Instead, he was focused on me. I saw him watching through the curtain of my hair as I cleaned his hand, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him to look away. The scrutiny made me squirmy. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was technically-maybe-sort of one of the bad guys, or because he was so damn hot.

I was about to start wrapping the wound when he tilted his head to the side, eyes faraway, and asked, “Who is Damien?”

The question took me off guard, and I stepped back, dropping his hand and almost tripping on my own two feet. “What?”

“Klaire was yelling at someone named Damien.”

Impossible. That was totally impossible. There was no way he was here without me knowing. I took another step back and folded my arms. “There wasn’t any yelling.”

“She was yelling at him in her dream.”

Her dream? I had no idea what to say to that. It made more sense, but was a little creepy. “So, you can spy on people’s dreams? Is that what you’re saying?”

His hands flew up in defense. Tiny flecks of blood flicked out and splattered against the wall. “Not on purpose.”

“Not on purpose? What the heck is that supposed to mean? How do you accidentally invade someone’s privacy like that?”

“I can see the focus of someone’s anger.”

“See? Like a vision or something?”

He shook his head. “See is the wrong word. It’s like a whisper in my head. A feeling. It’s the thing I feed on.”

Yeah. That wasn’t too creeptastic. “Thing you feed on?”

“The thing inside me. Wrath, remember?” He rolled his eyes. “It feeds off anger.”

I bit back a smile. Cute and sarcastic—if I had a type, Lukas would be it. Too bad he was kind of annoying, and more importantly, one of the Seven Deadly Sins… I glanced over at the DVD player. Two a.m. Fantastic. I was going to be one cranky kid come morning. Might as well make the most of it and see what I could find out.

Sinking onto the couch, I tucked my feet up and gestured toward the ceiling. “So you go around spreading your mojo and, what, feed?”

“This is hard to explain.”

“So let’s simplify. You spit pissy beams and then suck down the resulting anger orgy?”

His mouth fell open, and for a moment, I thought he might yell at me. His right eyebrow twitched and his mouth hung open in surprise. Taking a deep breath, he finally said, “I don’t spit anything, and I’m not sure what pissy beams are, but I’m fairly sure I don’t do them.”

I leaned back and tried to hide a smile. The hotness factor went through the roof when he got angry. Definitely something to take note of. “Okay. Fair enough.”

He held my gaze for a moment before looking away. When he turned back, his expression had done a one-eighty. Smile in place, he said, “I missed this.”

My own smile widened. He was infectious. “This?”

“Conversation.”

I laughed. “This is more argument than conversation.”

“The last person I spoke to was your grandfather. I wonder…would it be possible to see him?”

The smile faded, and I sighed. “Sorry…He died before I was born.”

“Oh.” He sounded genuinely disappointed.

A few moments passed in silence. Lukas picked at the edges of the peroxide bottle, peeling back tiny bits of the label and dropping them into his lap. Wispy strands of dark hair fell forward, partially framing his face. I turned away, feeling a little guilty. Stop staring at the Sin! I had to do something distracting—something to keep my brain occupied. “What’s it like? Having Wrath inside you?”

He didn’t answer right away and I was worried I might have overstepped. When he did speak, his voice was low, and something about it made my chest tighten. “Like I said earlier, the Sin lives inside—we share the same space. I can feel it trying to push me out sometimes. To take over…”

He shifted on the couch and flexed his fingers and it almost looked like he was in pain. “Always here. Always crawling and clawing to get to the surface. It’s a constant fight to keep it under control.”

“But you said you can control it, right?”

Lips curling into a slight sneer, he leaned forward and said, “You’re not feeling particularly violent, are you?” He held my gaze, and there was something about his expression. Something challenging. It made the air drop in temperature, sending chills up and down my spine, but also sent little tickles wiggling in my stomach. Awesome and terrifying all at once. “It’s part of me, so it’s always there. A little bleeds into the air regardless of my control, and I’m afraid Klaire’s dream was spurred by that.”

“So then, yes to the pissy beams? You caused her dream.”

I didn’t know Lukas from a hell hole in the wall, but the guy looked like he wanted to scream. Taking a deep breath—he did that a lot—he said, “What is a pissy beam, and why do you keep accusing me of doing it?”

“Chill. Pissy—angry. Same thing. Now about the dream?”

“The anger was there already. Wrath just pulled it to the surface and intensified the feeling.”

He still hadn’t done anything about his hand. It was bleeding all over his jeans now. If he let it go much longer, he’d look like an extra from the set of 300.

I gestured to the homemade first aid kit on the coffee table I’d pulled from the bathroom. We had a dozen just like it floating around. My bedroom, the trunk of Mom’s car—anywhere it might be needed. There was even one stashed in the back yard under a faux trapdoor covered in leaves. Grandpa hadn’t been a boy scout as far as I knew, but he’d taught Mom to always be prepared. You never knew when a little triage might be needed. “So what did all that have to do with the glass?”

He set the bottle of peroxide down and popped the lid on the box, eyeing the contents as though unsure what to do with them. After a minute, he pulled out a roll of gauze. Without cleaning the wound, he began wrapping his hand. I guessed when you had an ancient evil living inside you, infection was the least of your worries.

“When Wrath feeds, I feel the anger. It’s brief—a few moments at the most—but it’s powerful.”

“So…you broke the glass because you were angry?”

He ripped the gauze and tucked the lose end in tight. “I broke the glass because Klaire was angry.”

“If anger is always leaking out, how come I’m not mad? Or at least annoyed?”

He shrugged. “Some people are more susceptible. For Klaire, the anger was already there. My presence just brought it to the surface. You are surprisingly even.”

“Even?” I tried not to laugh. Even was the last thing anyone would ever call me. Snarky. Impulsive. Destructive. Never even.

“Most people have at least a small amount of anger festering. In some cases, it’s deeply hidden but always there. You just seem…happy. Content.”

“What can I say, I’m livin’ the good life. Nothing to complain about.”

He smiled. “Your grandfather was like that. He was so different from everyone else. Quiet.”

“Quiet?”

“Peaceful to be around. Not a spark waiting to be ignited. I didn’t have to try as hard to keep Wrath at bay when I was around him.”

Peaceful. Another word never used to describe me. Poor guy. He was clueless. Totally cute—but clueless. “So you can pull anger from people who are already pissed. Can you make happy people angry?”

“Of course. But why would I?”

“Um, because you’re Wrath?”

His lip twitched. For a long minute we just stared at each other.

With a deep breath, he said, “I’m not Wrath. It may inhabit my body and cause certain…side effects, but I am still me. I still retain free will.”

Setting down the roll of gauze, he examined his hand, wiggling each finger in turn. Content with his work, he repeated his earlier question. “Who is Damien?”

“Tell me more about being human,” I countered. I was genuinely curious, but I also got the impression he didn’t want to talk about it. He’d pointedly avoided giving specifics earlier. Clearly, the subject was touchy.

He responded with a brisk nod. Feet kicked up, he stretched across the couch and rolled over.

Message received.