Darklove

“We have work to do, Ri,” Noah says, staring forward. The bridge over the Beauly Firth looms ahead, and the heavy scent of sea life seeps through the vents of the Rover. “Get your head in the game.”



We are in the middle of the bridge when my cell phone rings from the center console. Immediately, my heart jerks in my chest.



It’s AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”



That’s Victorian Arcos’s ring tone.



Throwing open the console, I grab my iPhone and answer, “Victorian?”



There is nothing but silence for more seconds than I can almost stand.



“Riley? Is it you?” Vic says. His voice is hoarse, quieter than usual. But it’s him.



I can barely speak. “Where are you? Are you okay? What happened to you back—”



Victorian lets out a low, weak laugh. “I thought you said you could barely speak, love.”



I lean against the headrest of my seat and close my eyes. “Oh my God, you’re alive.” I sit straight up. I feel sweat pop out at my forehead, and my breath catches in my throat. “Is Eli with you?”



“Nu, dragostea mea,” Vic answers in his native Romanian. No, my love. “What happened to me? How did I get home?” he asks.



From the corner of my eye I see Noah mutter into his cell phone. He’s calling the States. Eli’s family.



“Home? As in Romania?” I continue, but my mind is screaming, Where the hell is Eli?



“Da, Romania. And I know you wish to hear more of your fiancé, Riley,” he says in a low voice. “I can still hear your thoughts, love, and I wish I had more to offer. I . . . just don’t remember much at all. Except . . . pain. Excruciating pain.”



“It’s okay, Vic,” I say, yet my skin prickles at the thought. I don’t want to sound cold, but hell yeah, I want to know more of Eli. “Do you remember being in the church with Eli? Me dragging you through the streets? The forest?”



“Yes, in the church with Eli. It happened almost as instantaneously as I appeared back home. In . . . a flash.” He sighs into the receiver. “We were strung up by our wrists. Beaten with . . . something not natural. We don’t bleed, Riley. But yet . . . it drained us. Then the beatings simply stopped. And we hung. We spoke until neither of us could speak any longer.”



“Beaten by who? And why?” I ask.



Vic sighs into the phone. “I never saw a face, only shadow. But I got the same sense I had when Jake Andorra hit me with his sword. I think it was one of the Fallen.”



“And the beatings stopped because the Fallen were killed,” I offer. “Why, do you think?”



“I haven’t a clue, other than pure torture brought pleasure to them,” he says. “Or to bring pain to you, which seems more likely.”



“Well, that was a success,” I say. “I’ve been out of my fucking mind, Victorian. Anything else?”



“A warm body, wrapped around mine—I pray that it was yours. A fall. More pain, I think I was being dragged down the street. Something . . . knocked me hard. Had I breath within me, it would have been gone. A strange language I didn’t understand, muttering something unintelligible. Then . . . nothing. I woke up here, with my papa staring down at me. Who’s with you? Miles? I’ll join you two—”



“Slow down, Arcos, and no, you won’t,” I insist. “I’ve got to call Jake and let him know about this. He’s got to be told. You stay away from here, Vic. For now. Okay?”



Silence on the other end.



“Victorian. I. Mean. It.”



“For now,” he agrees. “But only because you ask it. Riley?”



“Yeah, Vic,” I respond.



“Stay close to Miles. Do not try stupid things alone. And I will come right away, if you desire. All you have to do is ask.”



I exhale. “I know you will. Thanks. I’ll be in touch. And hey,” I say quickly, before he ends the call.



“Da?” Yes.



“I’m really glad you’re alive.”



Victorian softly chuckles. “I haven’t been that, love, in centuries. But I know what you mean. I am glad, also. Thank you. I know ’twas you who saved me, even if I couldn’t see your face.”



We end the call, and I glance at Noah.



He shakes his head. “I spoke with Gilles. Eli isn’t there.”



My heart drops to my stomach. “How can that be? How does Victorian go from a forest in Scotland to Romania in a blink, but no sign of Eli?” My eyes search the gray waters of the Beauly Firth. Cars are on the road now, people in their ordinary lives going about their ordinary business. Shoppers. Tourists. Locals. Fishermen. Suits.



Yet there is a true Hell, right here on Earth. And none of them even know it.



Noah’s cell rings, and my heart leaps as I look at him.



“It’s Jake,” he says. “Andorra,” Noah answers the phone. “Okay, hold.” He pushes something, and Jake’s voice booms out of the speaker.



“Riley, are you hurt?” Jake asks. His unusual accent is something I’m finally used to. A mixture of Scots brogue and something indefinable. Something ancient.



“No,” I answer. “Jake, what’s going on?”



“You tell me,” he says.



So I do. I give him full details of everything, starting with me arriving at Ivy Cottage, my trek up to the stones, then the woods and St. Bueno’s. Everything from the moment I entered that alternative world filled with weird tiny cat-headed demons, to pulling Eli and Vic out of the rafters. I end with the sonic boom that separated us all, and then I tell him of Vic’s phone call from Romania.



“Are you sure that was Arcos on the phone?” Jake asks.



The question catches me so off guard words fail me.



“Riley, I took his head myself,” Jake reminds me. “You saw it happen.”



I shake my head. “No way is it not him, Jake. I refuse to believe it.” I glance at Noah, and he’s looking ahead in traffic and pulls onto Montague Row. “No freaking way. Besides, Jake. I saw your sword flash, and then Victorian disappear. So I can’t vouch for the beheading. I mean, it looked like you’d done it. But I don’t know. Shit.”



“I’ll call his father,” Jake says. “You two get your heads in the game and wrap up Inverness. We need you here. Fucking wolves.”



The line goes dead. Just like Jake Andorra. Business finished, hang up.



Meanwhile, all I can think about is Eli. He’s got to be alive.



And I don’t care if it kills me, I’ll find him.



When Noah parks the Rover, the owner is standing on the sidewalk, briefcase in hand. Poor guy. I hope he doesn’t get canned because he’s late to work. We hop out, I holster my scatha, and Noah leaves the Rover’s engine running.



“Hey, nice ride,” Noah says to the guy. His eyes are glassed over, but he nods.



“Aye,” he answers, and focuses on his car. He scratches his forehead, confused.



“Have a nice day,” I add.



The guy walks to the driver’s-side door, still open. “Right, then,” he says. “Cheers.” Then he climbs in and takes off down the street.



I glance up, toward the sky. There’s no sun out, but it’s daylight. A dull gray haze surrounds the city. Car horns, voices, doors opening and closing, dogs barking. All the sounds collide at once, and I force myself not to cover my ears like a little kid. Suddenly, I’m drained, no energy, and all I want to do is close my eyes.



“Damn, I know that look,” Noah says, and grabs my arm. He pulls me to the guesthouse posing as our hideout. “Let’s go, Sleeping Beauty, before you make a bed on the sidewalk.”



I can sometimes go days without sleep now, but when it hits, it’s narcoleptic hell. It’s coming over me now, a wash of weary indescribable, almost as if I’ve had a long day at the beach in ninety-degree breezes and salty waves. Just . . . exhausting. I feel my feet leave the ground, and my nose scrapes Noah’s neck. He chuckles, mutters something. He’s carrying me, putting me down. My body’s against something soft, smells nice. Everything’s dark now, all is silent, and I’m going out. . . .



The river. Brine. Marsh grass. Not the river Ness. Home. I inhale deeply, until the air singes my lungs. The blow of a porpoise in the harbor hisses through the night air.



My eyes flutter open, and I’m in my bedroom, upstairs from my shop. Inksomnia. Seems like it’s been forever since I’ve been home. Everything’s hazy, and I scrub my eyes to clear my vision. The French doors leading out to the small balcony are open, and the gauzy drapes are fluttering in a barely there breeze. I can feel it on my face, my bare arms, and with it carries the scent of something other than brine. . . .



Rising from my bed, I glance down at my body. A sheer champagne-silk slip clings to my skin, grazes my breasts, and the material shifts with the sea breeze. It barely covers my thighs. My long straight hair falls over one shoulder, and I push it back. The wooden floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I make my way to the open door. I pause and place my palm against the wooden French frame. The lights glow an amber hue against the aged cobbles of River Street below, and the sound of the river washing against the marshy shore on the opposite bank lulls me into a calming trance. I inhale again, and close my eyes. . . .



I sense him before I feel him, and when he moves behind me, my body reacts, a thousand nerve endings snapping fire at once. His hand skims my arm, over my hip, my thigh. With his other hand, he pushes back my hair and exposes my neck. Soft, firm lips drag with erotic, painful slowness across my skin, lingering on my shoulder. His scent, so familiar, makes my heart slam against my ribs with anticipation. My joints weaken at the knees. I’d know his touch, the feel of his mouth against me, anywhere. He’s mine. He’s back. . . .



Eli. . . .



He turns me in his arms, and grasps my face with both hands. My fingers find his chest bare, and my eyes drink him in. I never thought I’d see him again, and a feeling greater than joy seizes my heart. My lips part to speak, but he hushes me with one finger across my mouth, silencing me. Slowly, he shakes his head, and I swallow whatever crazy words I had. I don’t want to break this spell. Is it really happening? Is he really here, under my touch? Am I really looking into the face that I love?