The Better Part of Darkness (8 page)

Chills erupted all over my skin, the nightmare of my death leaving me feeling cold and clammy. Like a corpse. I might have claimed to be used to it by now, but, honestly, every time I woke, it felt like the first time. The only difference: each time left me more exhausted and weak.

Relaxing my death grip on the sheet, I scrubbed both hands down my face to stir the blood flow and then rubbed my cold arms for warmth.

Concentrating on getting warm instead of being picked apart by good and evil allowed my blood pressure to return to some semblance of normalcy.

Then I closed my eyes, regulated my breathing as Doctor Berk had instructed, and pulled my feet inward until I sat cross-legged on the bed. My wrists rested on my knees. Mostly, I did this to calm down and push back all those images bouncing around my mind.

When I woke, especially the last few months, the sensation, something akin to strength or power, vibrated through my veins, making me feel as though my whole body hummed just a little. So I banked it, used the meditation to push all that good and evil shit aside and pull up my humanity. Me. Charlie Madigan.
That
was who I was. Not some weirdo walking dead person whose insides raged every damn night with images of darkness and light.

Once I had my mind under control, I glanced around my bedroom, drawn to the only light in the dark room. My alarm clock.

“Damn it!”

I had just enough time to get dressed and meet Hank for our trip to Underground.

Ten minutes later I stood in front of the full-length mirror and sighed. Well, this would have to do. My hair was down and messy from the nap, but finger-combing had gotten out the worst of the tangles. I had on the jeans and red V-neck T from earlier. I added faded brown cowgirl boots Bryn had given to me for my birthday last year and put a pair of gold hoops in my earlobes.

Full-blown makeup had never been my thing, so I washed my face, put on some lotion, let it dry, and then dusted my face with powder, added a little brown eyeliner, went heavy on the black mascara, and then applied some lipstick that matched my shirt. It made my lips look insanely obvious, like an overripe plum. I looked as though I was on the prowl for sex—not exactly what I had pictured wearing to The Bath House. But, the hell with it, maybe I’d get lucky. My reflection frowned back at me. Or not.

Downstairs, I pulled my old suede jacket from the closet, the faint scent of leather making me breathe in a little deeper. It was tailored to look like a short blazer, but it would hide my firearms, and it was light enough to keep me from overheating. Functional and stylish.

Headlights from Hank’s car flashed across the front window. I hit the inside light switch to off, turned the porch light on, grabbed my keys off the foyer table, and then slid my weapons into their holsters. I answered the door with one hand and tugged my hair from underneath the jacket with the other.

Hank’s large form hovered in the doorway, the serious expression on his handsome face going all cocky. “Hey, is Charlie here?”

I shook my hair out. “Ha, ha. You’re not funny.” I was becoming more and more convinced my daughter was getting her sense of humor from Hank.

A slow smile lit his face as he looked me up and down. “This may be the first time you’ve ever taken my advice. You look …” He paused, trying to find the right words.

“Like I just got out of bed?” I pulled the door closed, locked it, and then ushered him off the porch and down the driveway.

“No … I like it. It’s a good look on you.”

“It’s not a
look
. I just woke up. But I did do the lipstick for you, so we’re even about the whole oracle thing.”

He grabbed his chest and grinned at me over the hood of his shiny black Mercedes coupe. The street lamp highlighted the sparkle in his blue topaz eyes. “For me? You’re the best, Charlie.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said dryly, opening the door and sliding into the supple leather passenger seat.

My spirits lifted, and the memory of my nightmare quietly slipped into the far recesses of my mind. Thank God for Hank. Thank God I hadn’t been partnered with a stiff. If there was anyone, besides Emma, who could change my mood for the better, it was Hank.

As soon as he backed out of the driveway and slid the gear into drive, I held out the matches. He grabbed them, holding them in front of the steering wheel so he could watch the road and take a look at the graphics. “Where’d you get these? Because I know you’ve never been there. Veritas is a members-only club. Most people who go to The Bath House, even regulars, don’t know it exists.”

“Exactly why we should crash the party.”

He winced. “No crashing. Subtle investigation. Come on, say it with me …
Subtle investigaaa—
Eh, forget it. Lost cause, I know.” He tossed the matches back to me. “How’d you get them?”

“Auggie. He gave them to me right before he died. Those guys that attacked us, they had to be the ones supplying the
ash
. Auggie was seriously spooked. I’d never seen him like that before. He said the drug is made from a Charbydon flower.”

He grabbed his cell and began texting.

I stiffened and grabbed the dashboard as his fingers flew over the smooth black keyboard. “I hate when you drive and do that.”

He smiled without looking at me. “I know.” He finished and then tossed the cell back into the empty cup holder. His speed verged on texting genius. “Research should be able to put together some possibilities. That might narrow things down a bit, give us some idea of where it’s grown, who could be making it.”

“My money is on the jinn.”

“Could be. Or could be they’re just the movers, not the source.”

Hank took a left onto Courtland as I glanced at the digital clock in the console. The Bath House was one street over from Bryn’s apartment above her shop on Mercy Street. But it was past ten now, and Emma would already be asleep. Still, I made sure my cell phone was loud enough to hear in case Bryn called and then I refastened it back on my belt.

“Oh, yeah, I stopped by the hospital,” Hank said on an afterthought, “to check on Amanda.”

“You did?” I gave his shoulder a good squeeze.

He shrugged, and I knew the ego was coming. “I know, I know. I’m just a well-rounded, sensitive guy.” He flicked on the right blinker to turn. “She’s still in a coma, but stable. Just like the others.”

I, on the other hand, felt horrible for not stopping by the hospital. I’d had every intention, but then there’d been Doctor Berk, stopping by the store, and then making it home in time to get Em off the bus. And, of course, Will had showed up.

“It’s not like there’s anything you can do for her, Charlie. She wouldn’t even know you’re there. And besides, from what we’re hearing about the ones who have woken up, it’s like being in a constant state of bliss.”

“Yeah, and now those same people are in a living hell. They can’t function, they’re dying. It’s more than withdrawal.” I stared at the glittering city lights, frustrated that we couldn’t help those people, that answers weren’t coming fast enough.

We rode the remainder of the way in silence, and I let my thoughts and gaze drift to the pulsating city, to the people and beings on the sidewalks and crosswalks, in cars and using the buses, entering and exiting shops and offices.

Atlanta was diverse before the Revelation, but now it was like a living, breathing Jackson Pollock painting; so many shades, so many vibrant colors all jumbled together on an ever-shrinking city canvas. Humans of every kind. Elysians of every race. Charbydons of every ilk. All on display right here beneath the hazy glow of city lights reflected against the night sky. It made me think of a huge cauldron, a witch’s brew where all of us, every ingredient, affected the next. And it boiled and bubbled, always moving, always growing, always needing to be fed and tended.

There was no denying that I thrived here; loved it here. I was meant to traverse this landscape and interact with its occupants. I was like one of those witches; playing her role, tending to the cauldron, to see that it didn’t grow cold or boil over.

And if we didn’t find a way to stop
ash
from spreading we might as well jump right into the pot and call it quits.

My stomach growled loudly in the quiet containment of the coupe.

“Let me guess, you didn’t eat dinner again,” Hank said, throwing me a quick parental glance.

A compliant shrug was all I gave for an answer, choosing to return my attention to the view, wondering if retiring to a desk job was really the right thing to do. Hell, the chief would have a fit. Telling him was going to be just as hard as sitting on Doctor Berk’s plush chair. I chewed the inside of my cheek, but none of the scenarios flitting through my mind were going to help me with the chief.

Hank found a parking spot near Underground and soon we made our way to Helios Alley.

Underground at night was a hell of a lot different than during the day. Restaurants and nightclubs opened their doors. People spilled into the streets, barhopping or chatting, or just hanging out on the outdoor seating or around open fires burning in city-approved containment barrels. It had become like Bourbon Street in New Orleans. No cars allowed, just locals, tourists, and drunks everywhere. And music. Nearly every place you passed was different. Techno. Country. R&B. Alt-rock. And nestled in between were tourist traps, restaurants, antique stores, and magic shops.

Hank and I walked side by side, scanning the revelers and avoiding the drunks and irritating people who darted in front of us like they had the right-of-way. I hated being around drunks, unless, of course, I was one of them, which happened rarely in my hectic life.

A dark-haired woman in a bridal veil bumped into my left shoulder, spilling her drink over the rim of a red plastic cup. I stepped out of the way before it drenched me. She didn’t even notice, just continued with her friends to other side of the street and another bar.

“You look nice, by the way,” I told Hank as we moved closer to the sidewalk. “Whoever she is, she’ll like it.”

I wasn’t just being polite. Hank looked like a Calvin Klein ad come to life. His blond hair was swept back, but just enough to look naturally windblown. He wore a soft, white linen shirt with the top two buttons undone and khakis. He appeared as though he’d just stepped off some exclusive beach in Tahiti.

“Tonight’s not exactly singles night.” He increased his stride and slipped by a slow couple walking hand in hand. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed. This is perfect. If she does notice you and you’re forced to ignore her, it’ll just make her want you more.”

He rolled his eyes, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Your logic needs a serious overhaul. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. He had such an easy, confident swagger. “Well, seeing as you’ve had the day from hell … You sure you’re up for this? I mean, I don’t want you poofing out on me in the middle of things.”

“It’s pooping.” His eyes went wide. Okay, that didn’t sound right. “The phrase, it’s called pooping out, not—” The corner of his mouth started twitching, and his eyes glistened. I smacked his arm. “Damn it, Hank!” His laugh filled the space around us, rich and warm and slightly contagious. But I refused to even grant him a smile.

“I can’t believe you fell for that one,” he said between bursts of laughter.

“You’re so juvenile.”

“And your point?”

I shook my head. “Exactly.”

He ignored my summation and said in a singsong voice, “I got you to say poo—”

“Hank!” God. What was it with him tonight? “Don’t you have better things to do than to make me say immature words?”

His chin cocked thoughtfully and then, “Not at the moment, no.”

“Well, knock it off. And for the record, I won’t be
pooping out
on you tonight or any other night for that matter.” Please. I could deal with plenty. If only he knew.

The revelers thinned out as we approached an area where there were more stores than bars. Mostly upscale boutiques, hair salons, and spas. A few spas had eateries with outdoor seating and table umbrellas lined with white Christmas lights. There was still activity here, but it was definitely more subdued.

Potted palms framed the tall, recessed double doors of The Bath House. Dark and polished, the wooden doors’ rectangular panels had been carved to depict sea creatures, both mythological and real, some in extremely suggestive positions. Hank pulled his wallet from his back pocket and then slipped a membership card into the slot built in near the door. Once the machine read his card, the door popped open.

I resisted the urge to comment about his membership card. But only for a second. “So, how often exactly do you frequent the House of Bath?”

Following him into the foyer, I linked my hands behind my back and let out a low whistle. The foyer rose two stories and housed tall palm trees and exotic blooming vines. Small parrots and songbirds flitted about in the green canopy above us. The floor was made of thousands of small mosaic tiles, which glittered in the light. Large candelabras burned four to a side.

“I try to make it at least once a week. And don’t give me that look, Charlie. This reminds us of home. It’s part of our culture. We love the baths. And we’re not ashamed of our bodies either.”