Race the Darkness (26 page)

Overhead, a dainty splinter of moon pierced the predawn sky. A lone bird began to sing a morning song. A beautiful song. A funeral song. It was silly, but she wished she could thank that sweet little bird for its kindness at her last sunrise.

“Behold, the Dragon still lives.” The voice boomed through the stillness.

Her heart gave a sad slap against her rib cage. Not because she feared the voice, but because the sudden glaring sound of it had startled her. She was used to her father's low praying and singing.

A murmur of male assent came from all sides of her box. Cloaked figures wearing monk-like hoods looked down on her. Each man wore a large, squared-off cross around his neck. One of them was her father. Dark circles ringed each of his eyes, and his skin sagged from his skull as if he wore a mask of devastation and destruction that was too large for his face.

She almost felt sorry for him. He
had
kept his word and stayed with her—at least every time she was conscious, she heard him outside her coffin. But it seemed traitorous to admit that she'd found comfort in his voice and constant presence.

“Witness the beguiling innocence of the Dragon's form. Do not be fooled by the outward appearance of virtue and purity and weakness. Evil lives in its heart and has devoured its soul. Six days have passed in the summer sun with no food or water and see how it survives? A mortal would've perished.”

She stared at her father. His hair was the same color as hers. She recognized herself in his features. How had she not seen it in her dream of him killing Gran?

“No one man can kill it. Brother King has tried. He has since removed the ancestor, suspecting their power may have been linked. So today, together, it will be our sacred duty as the Faithful to end this evil.”

“Sounds good to me.” Her throat and mouth were gritty as desert sand and no sound came out.

“The first light of dawn is but thirty minutes away. Remove her from the demon box.”

She possessed no fear. The only emotion that existed for her was longing for this life to be over. She'd suffered enough.

Her father reached into the coffin, sliding his hands beneath her body and lifting her out. His hold on her was gentle—he even tried to avoid jarring her broken arm—and he held her like a revered possession, cradled close to his chest. She was too weak to move, but if she could have, she just might've hugged him. Just once. Just briefly. And only because she wanted to feel what it would be like to pretend to have a loving father.

He laid her on the ground and smoothed her hair back from where it had caught on her cracked lips. His gaze upon her was tender and sad, and tears welled in his eyes. He arranged her left arm straight out to her side but didn't touch her broken arm. Then he arranged her legs—spreading them obscenely wide.

Were they going to rape her? She couldn't dredge up any horror at the thought. The worst had already happened. Nothing they could do to her would hurt as bad as Xander's death.

A man moved to stand at each of her limbs, and one stood at her head—the Chosen One. Her grandfather. She didn't look at him.

Her father was her right-hand man. Her lips twitched at the pun.

“Lord, we, your Faithful, pray for strength and courage to fulfill our scared duty.” Chosen One's voice boomed with authority. “We ask that you bless us and our actions as we wash away this stain of evil with our blood.”

The urge to fight and resist flickered inside her, but the flame was too weak to catch.

“Brother King—”

How fitting his name was—King. A perfect match to Queen. She should've seen that one coming.

“—are you faithful to the Lord?”

Morning birds began to sing—one and then another, then five more—until it seemed hundreds of birds chirped, their choruses uncoordinated and yet soothing and majestic.

Her father swallowed, tears racing down his cheeks. He sniffled and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his cloak.

It was strange… He was trying to kill her and yet he felt so sad about it. She swallowed, cleared her throat, dug deep to find the energy to speak. “It's okay.”

His gaze snapped to hers, searching her face.

She didn't know what he was looking for, what answer he hoped to find. “I want to die.”

He turned his attention to Chosen One. “I am faithful to the Lord,” he whispered, the words sounding less than confident.

“Demonstrate your faith.” Chosen One passed a knife to King. The hilt of it was in the shape of the cross each of them wore.

She watched King, expecting to feel the pressure of the blade against her flesh, but he didn't move toward her.

Instead he sliced a line across his palm, squeezed his hand into a shaking fist, and let his blood weep onto her chest. Each drop against her skin an inferno. Each drop a death knell.

“Thy will be done.” King's voice was heavy.

He passed the knife back to Chosen One.

“Brother Bartholomew, are you faithful to the Lord?”

“I am.”

Again the knife passed. This time the man sliced his palm without hesitation. She didn't want to watch. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds while blood dripped on her flesh and the knife was passed to the men at her feet.

Her body went cold. So cold. Colors swirled and danced behind her closed eyelids, then faded to dull gray.

“Brothers. Are you faithful enough to endure?”

“We are.”

“Bare yourselves to the Lord.”

She heard the rustle of fabric from the men around her. Felt the whisper of air as each man dropped his robe. Definitely not opening her eyes now.

“Wash away the stain.”

They lifted her by her wrists and ankles, their grip on her slimy and slippery. Her broken arm popped. She heard it but didn't feel it. Her father gasped and dropped her. The other three dragged her. Her back scraped the earth and her head bounced on the ground until her father got hold of her again. This time he lifted her at her shoulder instead of at her wrist. At this point, what did that little kindness matter?

Cold water brushed her backside. The beautiful birds still sang, and water lapped a bank she couldn't see. The men carried her into the water. They adjusted their grip on her, each of them holding her underneath her body—shoulders and buttocks—keeping her afloat.

Her head bobbed on the surface, her ears underwater, taking away the lullaby of birdsong. She opened her eyes. Overhead, giant trees spread their branches out over them, and the sky had lightened to burnished gold.

Chosen One spoke more words, but she couldn't understand them. Water ringed her face. Her entire head was submerged except for her mouth, nose, and eyes. Her gaze found her father's once again. She should hate him for taking part in holding Gran and her captive. She should hate him for killing Xander and Gran. But she couldn't hate him.

It wasn't his fault. Not all of it. He had been brainwashed by Chosen One. And she really was the Dragon, destined to destroy everything she loved. Queen had been right about that. Isleen recognized the truth now.

Chosen One placed his palm across her forehead and pressed down. Water covered her face. She closed her eyes and waited for her body to need its next breath. Her lungs began to burn, and she began to thrash—her body fighting for a life she didn't want.

The first thing Xander noticed was the banging inside his brain. His smarts center seemed to be bashing itself against his skull with all the vigor of a death-row inmate fighting for a stay of execution. Nausea undulated in his stomach, each slow roll getting closer and closer to coming up. Until it did. He gagged, the sound erupting out of him, part violent groan, part esophagus working backward.

Somebody rolled his body onto its side. Something cool touched the side of his mouth—a puke pan. His stomach made a valiant attempt at coming up his throat. Nothing came out. Not his stomach and not even a dry hint of anything else. Finally, the spasm ended and he rolled onto his back.

His head throbbed. He reached up and felt a thick mass of gauze over his forehead.

He's fucking waking up. Thank you, little baby Jesus. He's waking up. Now you just keep the miracles coming here. I don't want my boy being a stick of celery. I want him exactly the way he's always been. You got me, God? Exactly, like he's always been.

Hearing Row's thoughts didn't hurt, but then his head couldn't hurt any worse than it already did without blowing off his shoulders. The air conditioner hummed, an elevator dinged, and someone was having a conversation about Mr. Needlemeyer needing his catheter reinserted.

A hospital. He was in the hospital. Again. Had he been struck by lightning? No, this time there was no stench of burned, rotting flesh. But exactly like last time—no Dad. Only Row was here with him.

“Row?” His voice didn't sound like his own. It sounded like it belonged to someone weak and helpless. He cracked open an eye. Only one. Didn't want to overload his already angry brain.

Row stood over him, her deeply lined face split wide open with one of those genuine Row smiles that transformed her into an aged beauty. “I'm here. Holy hell balls, I can't believe you're awake. And you know my name.”

“Why wouldn't I know your—”

“Do you know your name? Your birthday? Your dad's name?”

“Whoa… Slow up with the questions. My head is fucking killing me.”

“Not surprising. Your noggin took a bullet.”

Memories exploded in his brain. Vile memories of seeing Isleen with that man, of knowing that he intended to deal the same fate to her as he had to her grandmother. “Isleen!” He shot straight up in bed. An invisible fist punched him repeatedly in the temple, his vision pulsed, and yet he scanned the room for her. “Where is Isleen? Tell me!” He bellowed the words and saw white for a moment.

He heard footsteps—three people—running toward his room. Just let a nurse, a doctor, or a rent-a-cop try to calm him down.

“Don't you use that tone with me, boy.” Row jammed a knobby finger at him, the expression on her face fierce enough to make him feel ten years old again.

His room door burst open. Dad, Matt, and Kent crammed into the opening like some bizarrely modern version of the Three Stooges until his dad broke free, unclogging the dam, and they all practically tumbled into the room.

Hooollly fuuuck. He's alive.

Holy shit.

I knew it. I knew they were connected.

Xander's ears jammed with the thoughts from all three men. His already maxed-out brain went into the red zone, threatening a nuclear meltdown. He pushed his fingers into his ears, though that wouldn't do much good. Another reason on the list of reasons to get her back: she made him normal.

Dad stepped up to him, bending down to peer into Xander's eyes. “What's my name? When's my birthday? Do you know—”

“Quit with the fifty questions. I'm not brain damaged.” Though he wasn't so sure if that was accurate. He unplugged his ears and tried for a calmer tone, not because he felt calmer, but because his brain might blow to bits if he yelled again. “Where's Isleen?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the hospital smock riding high on his thighs. “Somebody better tell me where Isleen is, or somebody—probably all of you—is going to get hurt. And I need some goddamned clothes.”

Row jumped to action, but the three guys just stood there.

He's going to go apeshit, batshit, and shit storm when he finds out.
Matt's thoughts were loud inside Xander's head.

“When I find out what?”

Row handed him a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

Kent cleared his throat. “She's gone. No trace. We brought in scent hounds. They led us a few miles away, but then the trail died. We brought in a chopper to get the eagle's-eye view, but nothing. Yesterday, we brought in Lathan, that local consultant the FBI keeps under wraps. Nothing. He said the trail was too old. She just vanished. No one saw anything—except you, and you weren't talking. The only thing we had was a weird gold cross found at the scene. Prints not in the system.”

“She didn't vanish. He took her.” Xander stuffed a leg into the jeans.

“Who?” Everyone asked the question at the same time.

“The man who killed Gale. He's some Jesus freak or something. I heard him reciting verses when I found them.” He jammed his other leg in the pants and stood to pull them up. The world wavered and wobbled. Row—tiny Row—grabbed him by the waist to steady him and pushed him gently back to sit on the bed.

“I can have a sketch artist here in thirty minutes.” Kent pulled his phone from his pocket.

“No time for that. I found her once. I'll be able to find her again.” At least he hoped he would.

Oh shit. He doesn't know.
Kent looked at Alex, then at Matt with a someone-help-me-here expression, but Xander's family was famous for not lending assistance. “I never should've taken her from the house. She was safe there. I should've just put more guards on her, instead of letting my hatred of your ass cloud my judgment.” Kent's face went stop-sign red with anger, shame, and self-loathing. “Xander, it's been…too long.”

“Too long?” He shoved his arms through the shirtsleeves. His body was weak and his head felt atomic, but needing to find Isleen put things in perspective. He could deal with feeling weak and being in pain, but he couldn't live without her.

“It's been a week.” Kent's tone was flat and full of regret.

Xander's stomach fell until it was lodged somewhere near his ankles. Icy hands of dread choked off his air supply. His arms, stuffed into the sleeves, dropped to his chest. His head fell forward, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “A week? Are you sure?”

“Xan—” His father moved up next to him. “You were shot in the head. In a coma. We thought you were gone.” He swallowed, reached out, and touched the bandage on Xander's head. “We pulled the plug on you yesterday.”

Xander's head shot up, his gaze locking with his father's.

“But you didn't die. You just kept on…” Dad's eyes went wet. “I'm so glad I get this second chance with you.” Dad hugged him, a fierce man hug that nearly made Xander feel like a kid again. Row stepped up to them, and Xander wrapped an arm around her too. She reached out to Matt, dragging him into their hug fest. Matt grabbed Kent and shoved him into the mix, until they all surrounded Xander in one big, sissy ball of emotion that actually felt kinda damned nice. “Now finish getting dressed. If you're still alive, that means she's still alive, and we're all going to help you find her.”

His estrogen level had to be weirdly high because tears burned in his eyes. He blinked them back, swallowed, and then still couldn't speak, so he nodded.

Their group hug broke apart.

“Tell me what you need. Law enforcement will cooperate. We're searching for a murderer who's abducted Isleen.”

What did he need? The answer came to him in the form of instinct rather than thought. “I need to go to Prospectus County. I need to go to the torture trailer.”

* * *

Red sky at morning, take warning.
Xander didn't remember where he'd heard the phrase, but it felt appropriate.

The rising dawn hurled bloody smears of cloud across the sky, casting everything in an eerie crimson glow. Kent drove them through the endless fields of corn and beans that seemed to swallow the entire world. It all seemed so bizarre, but it was real.

Xander's brain thumped in percussive blasts that jerked his head and rattled his vision. He felt hot and cold at the same time—fucking miserable. The constant whir of the car's engine and the buzz of tires against asphalt—added to every man's heartbeat, every suck and whoosh of their breath—frayed Xander's already shredded nerves and combined to make it all sharply real.

He craved quietude the way an addict craved their next fix. Actually, he craved Isleen. She gave him silence and peace. At least Kent, Dad, and Matt had done very well at playing the silent game. Xander wouldn't have survived the three-hour drive if he'd had to listen to everyone talking and to their thoughts too.

The car bounced and rocked over the cheaply paved country road. In the distance a sign became visible—white with green letters that he couldn't read until they were right on top of it.

ENTERING PROSPECTUS COUNTY

Kent pointed at the post. “We'll be at the trailer in about ten minutes.”
Why would Isleen's abductor take her back to the trailer? If he did, it'd be an episode for the World's Stupidest Criminals show.

Xander's head pounded too hard to feel the pain of the frequency connection. “She's not going to be at the trailer, asshole.” He spoke through clenched teeth, the anger in his tone sounding deadly. Only he wasn't angry at Kent. Yeah, the guy had driven her away from him, but Xander had let her go because that's what
she
wanted. Was he angry with Isleen? No. Yes. Maybe. He didn't have time or brain space to ponder it right now. He just needed to get her back. “Sorry. I'm the asshole. I just need to go there. It's somehow connected to the man who took her.”

Kent glanced back and forth between Xander and the road, fucking pity in his eyes. “You okay? You're shivering and sweating.”
Never seen him like this.

“No, I'm not okay. I'm not going to be okay until Isleen is safe.”

Kent nodded. “You should know this: The plot of land the trailer sits on doesn't exist. The county records show it as part of the farm, but the farmer said the land has been in his family for over a hundred years, and there's always been a dwelling of some sort—not owned by him—on it. Another dead end.”

“You look into the farmer?” Xander remembered the picture of the guy from the news. He'd looked like an overgrown child.

“Yeah, we looked into him. Dug as deep as we could go. The guy's got farming smarts, but that's the beginning and end of his intellect. I can't imagine he'd have anything to do with this.”
All you'd need is one conversation with the guy, and you'd understand.

“How could a plot of land with a trailer on it—the electric, septic, gas—get past the township, the county, the government?” Matt asked from the backseat.

“There was no electric. We found a kerosene heater. No running water. The place was completely off grid. We suspect someone—possibly in the local government—has been falsifying and erasing records and greasing the right palms to keep the land and dwelling off the records. Our investigation turned up no one suspicious.”
No leads. Not one. Nowhere to look. Not even a direction to go. We're not going to find her.

“I don't need your negativity right now. I've got enough of my own. I already know this is fucking impossible. I already know…” His voice cracked, and he couldn't speak beyond the lump of dread in his throat. At minimum she'd spent the past week captive and scared. That thought was bad enough. He didn't dare let himself think of the millions of other things that could've been done to her when she'd already been through so much. And what if he couldn't find her?

The thought punched him in the throat, cutting off his oxygen and filling him with bone-deep fear.

He's going over the edge. This is gonna get ugly. Glad I'm in the backseat.
Matt's thoughts weren't exactly helpful, but they provided enough motivation for Xander to drop-kick the worst of his fears out of his mind. If he was going to go all cracked nut, he'd do it later. After this was over.

“Listen. My head is throbbing. I feel like dog shit. I can't concentrate with everyone talking and having to listen to the thoughts. But I'm not going over the damned edge. Not yet anyway.”

Dad scooted forward and placed his hand on Xander's shoulder. His grip was firm and fatherly, and goddamned if Xander didn't almost melt. He wanted his dad to solve it all. Wanted him to fix it and make it all better. But he wasn't a little boy anymore, and his father couldn't fix this one.

“Xan, you can find her…”
I wish I could tell you how. I wish I could offer you some guidance, but the link isn't something that can be found with words or directions. It's something inside you.
“…the same way you found her before.”

The brain itch. The restlessness. Only his head hurt too bad to feel anything other than pain. And his body was too spent to feel restless.

He closed his eyes and thought back to the story of Fearless and Bear. Bear had called Fearless back from the ancestors by touching her and chanting her name. He couldn't touch Isleen, but he could call to her. Maybe she'd answer. Yes. Maybe like before, he'd hear her inside his head.

Isleen. Isleen. Isleen.
Her name was an incantation, a spell, begging her to hear him, to respond, to help him find her.
Isleen. Isleen. Isleen.
He thought back to his best memories of her. Being inside her and knowing she was his. Watching her stand up to Camille. That ornery smile she so rarely showed.
Isleen. Isleen. Isleen.
He called to her, pleaded with her to answer…