Darkness Becomes Her

Nine

“WE’VE MADE THIS AREA HOME SINCE THE BEGINNING. WHEN the hurricanes came, the families put their differences aside, combined their power, and protected as much of the city as they could. The Vieux Carré. The Garden District. The business district took a pretty big hit, which is why most of it is still in ruins. After it was all over, the heads of each family formed the council and began putting old grudges aside and talking. And once it was obvious the government didn’t have the capacity to rebuild, they pooled their resources and bought the land. The city has been theirs ever since. They control everything — banking, real estate, tourism, trade. . everything.”

I listened, sipping on hot tea from a to-go cup as Sebastian spoke. After the rain had turned heavy, we’d raced to the sidewalk and found a small bookstore and café.

Sebastian’s voice was quiet and his face pale, the gray eyes a stark and silvery contrast against his wet black hair and dark red lips. I could look at him forever. But that was something he’d never, ever know.

“There are other things living in this city and the outskirts,” he continued. “The Novem offers refuge to anyone or anything so long as they stick to their laws and don’t draw attention to themselves. Not everyone who lives here is different. Regular people live here too.”

My fingers cradled the hot cup, and my stomach clenched. “So your mom was. .”

“A vampire?” he answered with a laugh that sounded like he didn’t believe it himself. “Yeah. And Josephine’s only daughter.”

“I always thought vampires were made, not born. That they couldn’t have kids.”

“That’s what most people think.” He smiled and gave a small shrug. “We don’t exactly see the need to enlighten the outside world. It’s pretty basic. We’re not an entirely separate species or anything; we just branched off the human evolutionary tree a long time ago and evolved differently. You’d be surprised how many branches there are. But yeah, vampires can be made or born. The made ones are called Turned — basically humans turned into vampires.”

“And the kids?”

“Kids are pretty rare. It’s not easy for vamps to have children, but it happens sometimes. The kids grow up normally, but when they reach adulthood, their bodies stop aging. That’s why most Born vamps look to be in their early twenties.” He went to say more, but then hesitated and shook his head. “You sure you want to know all this?”

“Yeah. It’s interesting.” I gave a small laugh. “In a mind-blowing sort of way.”

“Just be glad you didn’t have to take Mr. Fry’s molecular biology class, wherein all things human and doué are explained, all the way down to the genome level.”

“Total snooze-fest, huh?”

“Yeah.” He grew quiet.

I bit my lip, thinking over Sebastian’s words for a moment. “But you’re only half vampire?”

He propped his elbows on the table and leaned in. “I’ll give you the short version. You’ve got full-blooded children, who are called Bloodborn. They’re seen as nobility; they’re the most powerful and the most annoying. I’m talking egos the size of Mount Everest. The children of a human and a vampire are called Dayborn. There are different traits among them, different strengths and weaknesses. Dayborns don’t need blood to survive like Bloodborns do. Though there is a moment as they hit adulthood where the urge is there. If they take blood,” he added, shrugging, “they’ll need it from then on just like a Bloodborn would.”

“Do they usually? Take it, I mean?”

Sebastian nodded, his expression going dim and the volume of his words lowering. “Blood is hard to resist for any vampire, no matter their birth.”

The weight of his admission sat between us for a long moment. I cleared my throat. “And that’s what you are, Day-born?”

He glanced away. His Adam’s apple moved with a tight swallow. “No. My other half is Lamarliere. So not quite human, either. A witch’s DNA is slightly different, just like vamps and shifters, but they only tend to pass their power down maternally, through the female line.”

“So. . that would make you what, then?”

“I’ve always been partial to freak of nature.”

“Ha,” I shot back, smiling. “That one’s mine.”

He dipped his head, as though giving up his claim on the title. “Seriously, though, when I was little, my dad snuck me to a hidden library in the Presbytère, one that the students never see. One that houses some really old shit. He took out this stone tablet and said it told the story of a child like me. My dad called her Mistborn.”

“Mistborn,” I repeated.

“Yeah. Because mist hides what’s inside. And that’s sort of how I am. A big question mark, see? No one can say what traits, curses, or needs I’ll have until they manifest themselves. Some have needed blood to survive. Some never need it. Some can control it.”

“Oh.” Warmth crept up my neck, and I shifted in my chair. “So, um, which type are you?”

He shook his head and then stared beyond my shoulder, his gaze unreadable. “I don’t know. No telling if or when the need will strike.”

Well, that was comforting. My grip on the cup increased. “How many of you are there?”

He held up both hands and sat back. “You’re looking at it.”

“One. You’re the only one.”

“In North America, yeah. There are a couple more in the world, I think. Like I said, we don’t happen very often.”

“But what about Crank? She’s your sister.”

“Jenna isn’t my sister, Ari. Not by blood.”

“But. .” I frowned.

He paused, thinking of the right words. “This place kind of makes you band together. You find others like yourself, others you know you can trust with your life, and you become family. That’s what Violet is learning. That’s why she stays now more than she goes.” He shrugged, seeming uncomfortable with sharing so much and showing that he had a heart. “Jenna lost her parents and then her brother. It damaged her a little. When I found her, she was still sitting by his body. She thought I was him, and she went with me. I never tried to reason with her. Never saw the need to hurt her more. This is how she copes. She makes up things.”

My chest tightened at his words. “How did he die?”

“Not sure. I found them in Midtown, the business district. The ruins. You should never go there at night, or alone no matter what time of day it is. That place is a haven for predators. I think that’s why the Novem leaves it alone. They’d rather let the bad among us have the ruins than run the risk of them branching out into the Quarter or the Garden District.”

He gazed out the rain-streaked window. “Looks like the rain has stopped.” I didn’t press him, and part of me knew it was because I didn’t want to answer his questions when the time came. Maybe he’d show me the same courtesy. “You want to go to the market? I told the others I’d pick up food for dinner.”

“Sure.”

It was a short walk from the café, across the square, and to the French Market near the river. The sun came out as we entered the covered space. Tourists and locals had taken refuge from the rain, and the inside teemed with shoppers. The bright colors of vegetables and fruits, meats and cheeses, plants and garden ornaments occupied the space. Sebastian seemed to know what he was shopping for, but I chose a slower route, taking things in, browsing, looking at everyone and wondering who was human and who was not, wondering if — because I was doué—I could somehow tell the difference.

But no one stood out. New 2 was also a haven for pagans, Wiccans, and alternative lifestyles, so the cut of one’s clothes or the jewelry pierced into one’s skin didn’t mean anything.

Giving up on my detection attempts, I browsed the stalls, taking in the scents of coffee and bread, of freshly cut flowers, and even the smell of the river, which wound through the market on an occasional breeze.

Mardi Gras booths had been set up to sell beads, masks, and costumes. Soon I found myself lost in a rainbow of colors and tight spaces, leaving Sebastian behind as he haggled over a bag of potatoes. The Mardi Gras beads were cold to the touch and flowed through my hand like water. The masks were beautiful, yet haunting and seductive.

A black velvet, gold-lined mask with small, furry black feathers caught my eye, and I immediately thought of Violet. I knew she’d love it, and I could picture it sitting atop her head. I dropped my backpack onto the floor and pulled out some cash.

At another stall, I bought beignets for Dub and Henri and a metal mind puzzle for Crank. Once that was done, I wondered what Sebastian might like, and if it would seem weird to everyone that I’d bought gifts in the first place.

Near the end of the long covered building, I browsed through a line of scarves blowing in the breeze. A strong gust went through, causing a section of scarves to wrap around my face and neck as I turned back to search for Sebastian. I spun out of their satiny caress and ran straight into a hard body.

“Oh. Sorry.”

No response. No movement or the slightest flinch. My stomach dropped as foreboding stilled my heart. I glanced up.

Another black T-shirt. Another blond-headed giant. Another freaking-ass blade and shield.

My hand itched for the gun in my waistband, but there were people nearby. I hesitated, caught totally off guard.

I shouldn’t have hesitated.

He grabbed my arm, pivoted, and jerked me out the end of the market.

“Hey!” I pulled back, my adrenaline spiking. “Sebastian!” I dug in my heels and pulled hard, using my other hand to unwrap his tight fingers. “Let me go!” He didn’t, and I almost tripped when he yanked me harder. He had both of my wrists pinned in his hard grip, dragging me toward the river.

My eyes met the vendor in the scarf booth. The way he slunk back into the darkness of the booth, eyes down, made me wonder if this was a normal thing. Couldn’t be. I yelled again, hoping to alert the tourists, but we were several feet away already and the boats on the water and the noise from the market must’ve drowned out my screams.

Seeing the water gave me a sudden, horrifying thought— he was going to drown me. I pulled hard, leaning down to bite his hand. He let up enough for one of my hands to escape, and I used it to punch him hard, connecting with his left cheekbone.

I pulled the gun from my waistband, but as I brought it up, his free hand slapped down on my wrist, holding my arm out to the side, the gun away from its intended target. I struggled, but was no match for his size and strength. Time to rethink my strategy. Our gazes locked. My mouth curved into a smile, throwing him off guard for a split second; at the same time I raised my knee and slammed it into his groin. His hold on my wrists increased, but he groaned and bent over. Perfect position for me to knee him in the face. Which I did.

He cried out and cursed in the same odd language the other guy had used. Then he straightened, face red, nose trickling blood, veins engorged in his temples. I saw the head butt coming, but didn’t have a chance in hell to stop it.

My vision wavered and then bled into blackness.

The soft hum of an engine. The rhythmic rocking and splashing against the fiberglass siding of a boat brought me slowly back to reality.

The bristles of the blue turf that lined the floor of the boat had scratched my cheekbone raw. A fine, wet spray blew over me, cold and refreshing, giving me the extra jolt I needed to clear my head. I didn’t move, but saw the legs standing at the controls as the boat bounced over the waves of what had to be the Mississippi.

My gun was gone. I didn’t need to move to feel the absence of its metal grip against my skin, but at least my backpack had made the trip. It sat on the bench near the controls. Inside was the dagger. And if I didn’t have my gun, the dagger was the next best thing.

As soon as I straightened, bracing my hands on the turf for balance, a throb of pain mushroomed through my head. Breathe. Breathe through it. The nauseating motion of the boat wasn’t helping my chances of getting to my feet. Shit. I eyed the backpack, deciding the best course of action would be to nix the dagger attempt and knock the kidnapper off the boat using surprise and my body weight.

But trying to stand on a moving boat after you’d been head-butted by a two-hundred-pound asshole with a lead skull was like trying to ride a bike blindfolded through six inches of mud.

The boat hit a patch of calm water and slowed, coasting. I knew I’d have only a second before he checked on me. I pushed myself to my feet and lunged just as he turned.

The boat dipped in the front as it came to a stop. The force sent me barreling straight into his open arms, which wrapped around my torso as the boat glided to a small dock. Over his shoulder, the setting sun blinded me for a second as it sank down into the black horizon of the shimmering river and the swamp, which surrounded the river on both sides.

I’m going to miss dinner with Sebastian and the kids. Funny, the bizarre thoughts that go through your mind in times of crisis. Besides the voodoo ritual gone bad, the migraine, and meeting Josephine, today had been one of the best days of my life because of Sebastian. Until some idiot on steroids came along and ruined things.

The guy shoved me as though the idea of holding me that close was some horrifying ordeal. I landed hard on the blue turf, scratching my elbows, the back of my head hitting the rim of the boat.

“Asshole,” I muttered through gritted teeth, rubbing the back of my head.

He frowned and said something probably equally as impressive and then tossed my backpack onto the dock, tied the boat, and reached for me.

Once we were on steady ground, I said a prayer of thanks, wanting nothing more than to just be still until my body adjusted to the solid surface, but Leadhead was already pulling me down the dock and giving me the first glimpse of our destination.

I stumbled.

Set back from the river, nestled in a grove of old live oaks wearing Spanish moss like the tattered clothes of long-dead ghosts, was a massive plantation house. All alone. In the middle of the swamp, set on a manicured lawn like some stubborn island that refused to sink into the sludge. The scent of river and coastal mud was thick, but tempered by the breeze off the water and the chill that came with the disappearing sun. Already frogs croaked and katydids sang.

The house had a long second-story balcony and thick white columns that seemed as stout as the oak trees on the grounds.

A few dim lights lit the tall, shutter-framed windows.

As we crossed onto the lawn, my feet sank into the soft grass as though I was stepping in sand. My mind raced with escape plans and questions, but there was no point in asking my captor anything, since he didn’t seem to speak a word of English. And as we drew closer to the house, I wasn’t sure if I could speak. The house took my breath away. Yes, it was enormous and graceful, but it seemed to bleed emotions. Sadness. Loneliness. Like a beautiful lady left alone in a sea of gray, green, and black, protected only by oak matrons in their skeleton shawls.

We crossed the first-floor porch to the front door. Inside, the area was lit by a large chandelier that hung in the foyer.

Deserted and dim. An interior designer’s dream. Our wet, muddy footsteps thudded over the plank floors, straight past a grand curving staircase and toward the back of the house. He nudged me to the right, to a door that led beneath the staircase.

He spoke a few whispered words, shoving me down the rank-smelling stairwell lit with old iron lanterns. Something was very wrong with this picture. We were going down. Impossible in this swampy area. Granted, the house might have been built on a patch of solid ground, but even that was sinking, like everything in and around New 2.

My pulse hiked as I saw the walls, made of tightly stacked blocks of stone. Black trails of sludge leaked from the seams in places, making it look as though the stones wept black tears. The place gave me the notion that at any minute, the blocks might give way and the dark water and swamp creatures would come in and reclaim what was theirs.

I swallowed hard as we came to a long corridor. We had to be two stories under now, and the weight above us, the idea that everything around us existed on soft mud and swamp, made my blood pressure skyrocket and my palms sweat. I had to get out of here. Now. Before the claustrophobia made me panic and do something stupid.

My captor shoved me down the corridor. Lanterns lit on their own as we went, as if by magic. Then I realized in horror that we were passing cells. Cells. Cells with fronts of thick iron bars covered in crust and cobwebs. The interiors were black. And the smell had become suffocating. Far beyond human stench and waste to unbreathable.

My stomach turned, and I stumbled just as the guy gave a hard push to keep me moving. I fell to my knees and gagged, retching three times before he jerked me to my feet. A fine sheen of cold sweat covered my skin, and my throat burned with bile.

Four cells in, he stopped and opened one.

“No,” I started in a small voice, leaning back against him, turning in his arms and clinging to him like a child. “No, please.” He pulled at my fingers. Tears ran down my cheeks as we struggled, body to body, me holding on for dear life and him doing everything he could to pull me off. I was far beyond panic, mumbling words fast and shaky and desperate.

There was no fucking way I could go in there. No way. Please, God, no!

Finally he succeeded as my strength failed, shoving me into the cell. I fell onto my rear. The door slammed shut. There was slime on my palms, and my knees slipped in something as I crawled to the door and grabbed on to the bars, screaming after him.

“Don’t leave me! Please!”

As he left, each lantern blinked out.

My nose grew stuffy. The tears continued hot and fast down my face, which I pressed against the bars, desperate to hold on to the light, to see the light. “Please.”

And then there was nothing but velvet blackness and silence.

I cried for a long time, until there were no more tears left. My grip on the bars relaxed, and I slumped next to them, still holding on, still trying to be as close to the exit as I could, afraid of what lurked or had lurked in the cell.

Eventually I became as silent as the space around me. My mind settled and began to refocus. It was clear that the guy who’d brought me here was the same type of guy as the one who’d attacked me in Covington. And by killing him, I hadn’t stopped the curse. A light wave of nausea rolled through my gut. Was that why I was here, to be beheaded like my grandmother? No. No, that was not going to happen. I squeezed my eyes closed, concentrating on the faint drip, drip, drip of water and the steady rhythm of breathing, which might’ve been from the cell next to mine or the one across the corridor.

There was a small shuffling sound. A grunt. I straightened. A shiver went down my spine and lifted the hairs on my arms and legs. There were others in these cells. I was not alone. A relief, but also another reason to worry. Friend or foe? Kidnapped like me or dangerous? I sat against the bars for what seemed like hours, thinking of Sebastian and the kids back at the house on First Street. Were they looking for me? Giving up? Turning in for the night?

A small light began to grow in the cell diagonal from mine. I rubbed my dry eyes with the back of my hand. The light reached capacity, which was only a faint glow, no brighter than a candle on its last breath.

A shadow appeared on the wall inside the cell, and it looked as though the person making it was sitting against the wall I couldn’t see. “Hello?” The voice that came out of me was hoarse from screaming and almost too soft to hear. I tried again. “Hello?”

“Hello, she says,” a sharp, high-pitched voice cawed from down the corridor, laughing and mimicking. “Poor baby. Poor, poor baby.” Gleeful laughter followed, grating on my spine like nails on a chalkboard, as though a bird had been given voice. A mean bird. “Get used to it, girlie. Get used to it. Hello, she says. Hello, hello, hello. .” More laughter, which finally subsided when another voice, also down the hall, told it to “shut the fuck up.”

A few more cells began to glow. The occupants in them obviously had some source of light that I didn’t.

The shadow in the diagonal cell moved and a black form, backlit by the glow, appeared at the bars. “What did you do?” said a gruff, masculine voice. Very deep, but very quiet.

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything.”

Voices laughed. Tears pricked my eyes again, but I blinked them back.

“You might not think so, but to Her you have.”

“Her?”

He chuckled, an echoing rumble. “You must be a Beauty, then.”

“A what?”

“It’s the Beauties who have no idea why they’re here. The ones who attracted the wrong kind of attention, took attention off Her.” He sighed. “The Beauties all die so quickly. …”

“I’m not a Beauty.” And I’d never believe I was. I saw it in the face in the mirror, the possibility of beauty, if not for the freakish hair and the teal eyes that were too light. Too weird to be beautiful. “And I’m sure as hell not going to die here.”

The man moved, sitting down next to the bars. “Why are you here, then?”

“I wish I knew. One minute I’m minding my own business in the French Market, and the next I’m attacked by some weirdo foreign guy who likes to carry daggers and shields.”

A hiss sounded. “The French Market? In the city? New 2?”

“Yeah,” I answered slowly. “What’s New 2 have to do with it?”

“The Sons of Perseus,” the guy said. “τερας hunters. They are forbidden within the city. Damn it,” he swore under his breath. “She has broken the compact.”

“Excuse me if I’m a little lost here, but what the hell is a τερας hunter? And what do you mean by ‘compact’?”

“The compact is — was — an agreement between the Novem and Herself after the hurricanes struck. We turned over a τερας hunter who had betrayed her in return for her promise to never breach the city again. τερας means ‘monster’ in Greek. Any creature that is not human. The Sons of Perseus, they hunt them. They hunt the poor, unfortunate souls that were Made by The Bitch herself.”

The bird voice laughed, and I could picture the person jumping up and down. “The Bitch! The Bitch, The Bitch, The Bitch!”

“Will you shut. . the fuck. . up?” came the same annoyed voice as before.

“For Her to have done this, you must be very important. Who are you?” the guy near me asked as though he hadn’t even heard the commotion down the corridor.

“You first. Who’s ‘The Bitch’?”

Whispers. Sad, fragile whispers began, carrying down the corridor. Whispers of one word, one word that finally became something.

Athena.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight. The bird voice mixed with the others in a whisper that sounded like awe. “Athena.”