Darkness Becomes Her

Two

I HURRIED DOWN TO THE CHECKOUT COUNTER, HANDED IN MY key, and then headed out the back exit to my car. The streetlamp buzzed, flickering occasionally, highlighting the haze that hung low in the air. Frogs and crickets chanted from beyond the chain-link fence that separated the parking area from the overgrown, watery ditch that ran the length of the lot.

With every step, I became increasingly skeptical and felt increasingly stupid. What the hell was I doing fleeing because of some letter? And what was in New 2 that I needed to avoid? Answers to my past? Why I was a freak of nature? More info on my mother’s life?

My mother might’ve warned me, but she probably never envisioned that her only daughter would turn out to be a part-time bail bondsperson. I could handle New 2 and anything else that came my way.

Once again, I put the box on the passenger seat and my oversize backpack on the floorboard. My fingers flexed on the steering wheel, and I sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, hating my indecision.

I’d learned about Rocquemore House and the place of my birth, New Orleans, before leaving Memphis. Bruce and Casey had been cool with lending me one of their vehicles, knowing I was more mature and responsible than most adults. I was seventeen, had just graduated a semester early, and had proven, by my performance at work, that I was trustworthy. And in six months, I’d be a legal gun-toting citizen and full-time employee of Sanderson Bail & Bonds.

But — I bent over and let my forehead bang softly against the wheel — I’d promised Bruce and Casey I’d only go to Covington, and that if my search led to New 2, I’d wait for them to go with me, and not go in alone.

But now, with my mother’s letter, I wanted to go right away. I’d waited all these years. I was so close. …

The entire night had totally messed with my mind. Ari Selkirk was not an indecisive person. I’d had to take care of myself for most of my life, and I’d faced tougher moments than this. Hell, this was downright soft compared to some things.

With that thought, I sat back and slipped the key into the ignition, but before I could turn it, my cell phone rang from inside the backpack.

“Hello.”

“How’d it go, kiddo?” It was Bruce.

“Fine. Think I got what I came for. Still have to look through it, though. Hey, tell your brother thanks for his help, okay?” Even though the jerk overcharged me for his investigative services.

“Sure. You still driving back tomorrow? We got two new cases. Could be good for business.”

Could be, I thought. Could be even better if I found out who I was and why I was different from every other girl in the world.

“Hey, you still there?”

“Yeah.” I paused. “I, uh, have a few more leads to check into and then I’ll be back. Should be tomorrow night sometime.” I squeezed my eyes closed, feeling like crap that I just didn’t come clean and tell him I wanted to go to New 2. But I was too afraid that if I did, he’d say no. Originally, I’d planned to leave Covington in the morning and drive back to Memphis. Now I wasn’t sure what to do or why the hell I’d just checked out of the hotel.

Yes, you do. You’re going past The Rim. You’re going into New 2.

After hanging up with Bruce, I turned the ignition and let the car idle. I needed one day. One day to drive into New 2, visit Charity Hospital, gain access to my birth records, and, hopefully, find my father’s name. Although, driving might not be the best option seeing as New 2 was notorious for stolen vehicles. The last thing I wanted, especially after going back on my promise, was to arrive back in Memphis without the car.

Maybe the woman at the front desk could point me to a bus station. If there was one nearby, then maybe it was meant to be. If not, then I’d have to wait. But there was nothing wrong with asking, right?

Leaning over, I went to grab my backpack, but movement in the rearview mirror made me freeze.

A dark figure stood behind the car, now totally still. Fear shot lightning fast through my system, and I had the distinct feeling that I’d just dropped straight into a horror film.

Shit. He just stood there, a shadow in the rear window.

Slowly my hand skipped over the backpack and went for the glove compartment. I opened it, feeling for the 9mm Bruce kept there. I was in a company car. There was always a backup in each vehicle. Illegal for me to use, but something told me being underage was the least of my worries, and if I could scare him off, then no harm done.

Relief rushed through me as my hand curled around the gun. I straightened, took a deep breath, and forced my mind into training mode. I’d practiced encounters like this a million times — evasion tactics, self-defense, apprehending. …

I opened the door and got out of the car.

Tall. Dark blond hair cut short. Black T-shirt. A leather strap diagonally across his chest attached to a round shield behind his back. But what caught my attention and made my heart leap to my throat was the very shiny, very wicked-looking blade in his hand, something in between a dagger and a short sword.

He was solidly built, and when he eyed me up and down and then stared into my eyes, my mother’s words echoed in my mind. RUN!

My hand flexed on the weapon I held against my thigh as he moved from the trunk of the car to the open space, leaving me trapped between two vehicles and the wall of the hotel. I eased back and slipped between the front of the car and the bushes, and made for the other side. He shadowed my move.

“Look, man, I don’t know what your deal is, but maybe you should put the knife down, okay?”

We were on the back side of the hotel, virtually isolated. And unless a car came down the side road next to the lot, I was on my own.

He moved forward, leading with his wide shoulders. I didn’t want to shoot the guy, but something told me he could care less about the gun. He started speaking. In a different language. A low, commanding tone spoken with such conviction that I knew whatever he was saying was bad, like last rites kind of bad.

“C’mon, don’t be stupid.” I backed up, stumbling over the curb. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

He closed the distance between us and was about three feet from me when he spoke in heavily accented English and raised the blade. “By the will of Athana potniya, I release you from this life.”

Damn it, he’s gonna make me do it.

The blade swung down. I fired.

The sound cracked through the night air like a bomb, and the slight kickback vibrated through my body as the bullet thunked into his thigh.

He flinched, paused for a second, and then continued stalking toward me.

My eyes went wide and my mouth went dry. Oh yeah, he was jacked up, high on something. Had to be.

He raised the long dagger again. My pulse pounded loud and slow in my ears. It seemed like that second lasted forever before his arm came down with so much force that it made him grunt. I could barely feel my hand as I leveled the gun and pulled the trigger again. The bullet hit him in the right shoulder. It wouldn’t kill him, but it should make him drop the damn mini-sword.

He stopped, arm halfway into his blow, and glanced at the blood blooming outward from his wound. Then his crazy eyes met mine. He grinned.

Oh shit.

He took two steps and swung downward. I caught his arm, hoping the wound and my own strength would be enough to hold him off. His face was inches from mine, close enough for me to see the purpose-filled light in his eyes. Sweat trickled down his left temple. Through clenched teeth, he cursed at me in that odd language. His other fist swung up, but I blocked it with my elbow, steeling myself against the pain, and immediately kneed him in the groin with enough strength to dent the hood of a car. He dropped back and doubled over.

The blade clattered to the ground.

About time.

My senses kicked in. I darted past him, grabbing the blade off the ground without breaking stride, my hair coming undone and falling into my eyes. I made for the side street that led to the front of the hotel, but just as I rounded the corner, he caught up with me. His hand snaked out and hooked my ankle. I shrieked in surprise. My arms pinwheeled. Oh no. I braced for impact.

My elbows hit the ground first, a fraction of a second before my forehead cracked hard on the blacktop and sent the gun and blade clattering.

Pain burst in all directions, running along every inch of my skull and blinding me in the process.

Jesus Christ! Everywhere there was searing white light.

My limbs went numb, my pulse thundering too fast, too chaotic. I was on the verge of panic, the kind that would completely destroy my ability to fight if I didn’t get my act together. If you’re down, you swing at anything! You do whatever it takes to get back up! Bruce’s voice shouted in my head.

Biting back the panic, I flipped over and kicked out blindly, connecting with something. My hand brushed over the hilt of the blade lying above my head. I grabbed it, sat up, and shoved it in front of me with all my strength, hoping to hell it hit something.

The sword caught. I pushed.

My heartbeat drummed so loud in my ears, I could barely hear. Slowly my vision returned.

The man knelt between my legs, both hands holding a small portion of the blade near the hilt, the rest embedded deep in his chest. His eyes were wide and surprised, as though the idea of failure had never occurred to him.

Time passed. Our gazes stayed locked. At some point, his expression shifted to regret. One hand reached out and lifted a strand of my hair. “So beautiful,” he whispered in English. He rubbed it between his bloody finger and thumb. Then he muttered in that same strange language before a cough overtook him. He grimaced, closing his eyelids tightly. My hair trailed through his fingers as he fell back, his body sliding off the blade.

The frogs and crickets continued their night song. The sounds of traffic came back to life. But all those sounds, those sounds that had no idea what had just happened, were muted by my loud, ragged breaths.

My throat grew thick and dry. Tears stung my eyes as I stared at the guy in front of me. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Healthy. Good-looking. He could’ve had a decent life. Met a cute girl. Gotten married. Had babies.

Oh, God. I’d just killed a man — my fingers flexed on the hilt of the blade — with a goddamn miniature sword.

Family time with the Sandersons never covered this.

I swiped the back of one shaking hand over my wet eyes, still gripping the dagger with the other even though my knuckles were white and my fingers were cramping. I couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t seem to recover from the shock. The shock of being attacked by a stranger. Of fighting for my life. Of killing him. . Get the cell phone. Call 911. Get off your ass, you know what to do. Yes. I knew what to do. With a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart, I rolled onto one hip to push up, but the man’s body suddenly twitched.

I froze, mouth going slack as his body lifted off the ground and hovered for a few seconds before slowly turning to smoke, and then disappearing into some invisible updraft.

Dumbfounded, I sat back down and blinked. My grasp on the sword went limp, the angle of the blade catching the streetlight and making the blood shine.

A sharp laugh escaped my open mouth. “Seriously?” My voice sounded small and weak in the quiet night. I tipped my head back and yelled at the hazy night sky. “Seriously!”

Was this someone’s idea of a mind game? Did I fall down the steps at Rocquemore? Bang my forehead too hard on the pavement? Goddamn it! Tears blurred my vision as I stared at the blade resting on the ground between my legs.

Blood. Blade.

Whatever had just happened, I knew one thing. It was real. I held the proof of it in my hands. My mother, as screwed up as it sounded, had been right.