the Darkest Edge Of Dawn (2010) (5 page)

"It's a risk every necromancer takes. No one can see auras on dead people, Charlie. Not even you. And it's not like we had time to find out who she was beforehand. If we'd done that, we wouldn't have gotten any information from her at all."

Hank wasn't looking at me. He was staring down at Daya's corpse. I knew how he felt. Powerless. Daya wouldn't have died in the first place if we'd been able to do our damn job and figured out who was kidnapping and killing Elysians. Seeing her wanting her life back, wanting what anyone would want ... Yeah. Been there. Knew what that was like.

"At least we got the call instead of the ITF," I muttered. Score one for the new federal agents.

Except for one "capture alive" case, the only other case we'd worked since taking on our new role two months ago had been a "kill or be killed" situation. Sounded harsh, but I--and obviously a lot of other people--believed that what we did was a necessary evil. There were things, even after thirteen years of integration, that posed too much of a threat to society, things that didn't require capture or a trial, things that often preferred to fight to the death, things better left to ... well, us.

The tape stopped rewinding. I turned the power off to save the battery.

"So now we know where our missing Adonai went. This"--Hank stared down at Daya--"is the seventh body in less than two weeks. Dumped in the trash ... discarded."

His profile went grim and utterly determined, lips drawn into an angry line, the muscle in his jaw flexing beneath day-old stubble. He dragged his fingers through his hair and then propped both hands on his hips. The air became charged with rage for these victims. He stood there like some dark avenging angel.

Like all sirens, Hank's beauty bordered on fantasy, and he oozed masculinity like a sweet, beguiling perfume, but the last few months of being cut off from his siren power, had done something to him, had made him colder, harder, unpredictable, and, if I wanted to be honest with myself, scarier.

* * *

My friend at Animal Control arrived as Hank and I were leaving the warehouse. After showing Tim the hellhound and making him swear on his entire collection of autographed Atlanta Braves baseball memorabilia to send the beast back to Charbydon, I joined Hank in the parking lot with Liz and Elliot.

It was drizzling.

I sensed it before I ducked under the lopsided door.

Interesting phenomenon, the rain. It had to pass through the darkness, and each drop carried with it some gray, some primeval Charbydon power. When a drop hit the ground, it dispersed the darkness in a tiny puff, like smoke. The thing was, there were so many drops going on at once that it created a fog over the ground. And as long as it rained, those little whiffs of "smoke" kept being hit back down, or trapped once more into the rain. The more rain, the more "Charbydon Fog" as we'd begun calling it.

I turned up the collar on my jacket and hunched my shoulders, not happy at the thought of darkness splatting on my head and shoulders, not happy that my body responded, got a little energized by the raw, arcane power around me. Part of me was Charbydon now. And there was nothing I could do about the near-constant tingle I got from the darkness overhead. Made me wonder how all the other local Charbydons were feeling. Probably pretty damn good.

Atlanta had become a paradise for the Charbydon races; the forty-mile radius of darkness that spread from the grounds of Mott Technologies and outward made the city a dark replica of their home world. They'd tolerated the sunlight before, but this ... this was like their own little hell on earth.

My feet stirred the thin layer of fog on the ground as I made my way across the derelict parking lot toward the dark silhouette of Liz's van and the small overhead light spilling out from the vehicle, leading me like a lighthouse beacon. I rolled my neck, trying to ease the anxious feeling the darkness spawned in me.

All I wanted was to get out of this and somewhere I could think straight without this constant reminder that I was different, genetically altered to bring darkness to Atlanta.

Yeah. City in crisis? That was me.

Despite the press conferences and the constant assurances that the darkness had been the work of one power hungry Charbydon noble, many here held the entire Charbydon race responsible. And that idea was constantly fanned by those who'd been against the integration of our worlds from the beginning.

The tension wasn't as bad as it had been in the first few weeks, but two months wasn't a long time; the tension was still here like a living current just below the surface. Recently the focus had turned to asking: how does a city survive without sunlight? And that question was being addressed by the world's best and brightest--Titus Mott.

Since most of our food sources came from other places anyway, we didn't have to worry about produce and fresh foods; those continued to be trucked in as usual. But we did have to worry about sunlight deficiencies, the effect on sleep cycles, and the constant drain on electricity. The government was urging citizens to take frequent trips outside the forty-mile radius, and depending on where you were, that could happen almost daily or only on the weekends. The point officials tried to make was that it was doable. We
could
handle this until a way to get rid of the darkness was found. Travel outside the city. Sunlamps. Vitamin D pills, mandatory lights-out for residential districts and businesses on off-hours to save on power ... Whatever it took.

And I refused to believe that Atlanta had become the new hell. The light would come back. My genetically altered blood had brought the darkness into this world, and it would be my job to take it out. I just wasn't sure how to make that happen ... yet.

Liz sat in the passenger seat of her van, Elliot hovering nearby. Her white throat bobbed as she chugged the OJ, drinking like a person starved. A third of the gallon was gone before she stopped and noticed me standing there. "What? I need vitamin C."

A deficiency all natural necromancers were born with and one that got worse after a ritual. She seemed none the worse for wear except for the big elephant lurking over us that no one spoke about--how much of her life force this had cost her.

"You get a picture of her death?" I asked, folding my arms in front of me and trying not to look like I was hugging myself against the drizzle.

Liz angled in the seat to face us, took one more long drink, then: "Just flashes that corresponded to the things she said. Her life force was sucked out of her body. I felt that part. The ring Daya mentioned could be an object of power, the murder weapon possibly, a container for her life force." Another long drink. "Didn't get a face. I did get a halo of red. Fiery red. Power. Aura. Can't say for sure."

"What about location?" Hank asked.

"A terrace, definitely. Downtown view. Didn't see the actual building, but the view was downtown. And I didn't get a sense if it was her apartment or just the place where she was killed. That's it. I wish it was more." Another drink. "Oh, and guys? She wasn't just a mage--she was a Magnus."

"Perfect," I muttered. "So our killer is going after high-level mages."

"If he wants to keep on killing, yes," Hank said thoughtfully. "Whoever is doing this must be after power. Think about it. The Adonai are the most powerful of all Elysian races, right? They're top of the food chain. But most all of them have left the city or gone back to Elysia because they prefer light to darkness. So the killer's pickings are slim."

I picked up his train of thought. "Right. And next up in the Elysian power chain are sirens and nymphs. Add an Elder or a Magnus-level crafter to their resume and you've got the next best thing in power sources."

"Exactly. And he had to target a Magnus-level crafter because the Elders are virtually untouchable within the confines of the league."

"True," Liz said. "The Elder crafters are like hermits; they never leave the safety of the Mordecai House."

"Okay," I began, my thoughts turning. "Well, we have a workable theory. We've found our missing Adonai, and we've got one powerful nymph sucked dry. Let's assume, for now, that the others in the warehouse met the same end. We've got a killer preying on power, but only Elysian power. He's not targeting Charbydons, because if he was, he'd be going after the nobles next; they're just as powerful as the Elysian Adonai."

"Which tells us one of two things: either the guy's got something against Elysians of power, or Charbydon power is of no use to him." Hank snorted. "Or both."

"Well, he can't be feeding on all that power alone," Liz said. "A body, no matter where it's from, can't hold that much."

"So who is powerful enough to kill a bunch of Adonai?" Elliot asked, getting into the spirit of our brainstorming.

Good question.

I glanced around the group, and saw the answer on their faces. Charbydon noble. In Elysia the Adonai were the most powerful, but in Charbydon, the nobles had that distinction. The two races also happened to be enemies since before Man walked this Earth. And most still were despite the peace pact they'd agreed upon when the two worlds had been discovered thirteen years earlier.

"But anyone can rise to power, enough to rival an Adonai or a noble," I said. "It'd take centuries of study and training, but there could be others in this city capable of taking down an Adonai."

Hank's brow lifted in agreement. "And this might be the perfect setup for starting a war."

The Adonai had recently bowed to government pressure, agreeing to stay quiet about their missing members in the interest of public relations. But once they learned the missing had turned up dead, it was highly doubtful they'd remain quiet. They'd blame the Charbydons.

Elysians versus Charbydons. Heaven and hell at war. Again. Only this time Atlanta would be the battleground.

"Sure hope he's not a Charbydon," Liz broke the silence, saying what we were all thinking.

"So we find him," Hank said in a deep, determined tone. "And shut him down before he fucks up life as we know it."

"Elliot and I will take care of the bodies."

"And we'll talk to the chief," I said. "See if he can convince the ITF to keep this quiet for as long as they can."

Liz's expression turned grave. "I guess you'll be going to the Grove next."

I nodded. "We need to find that terrace."

"Well, good luck. He's going to want her body. Tell him I'll have it to him by tomorrow morning and not to storm my morgue."

Easy for you to say,
I thought. Liz wasn't about to stand in front of the Druid King and tell him one of his Kinfolk had been murdered.

4

It was a two-and-a-half-mile drive north from the warehouse district to Tenth Street. Downtown passed by in a quick stream of lights, lights that never went out. The clock on the console read 4:38
P.M.
But outside it didn't matter--it could've been predawn or late dusk during one of the darkest thunderstorms you ever saw.

I sighed, staring out the wet window. Some days, it was hard to tell the difference between night and day.

"You pick up a sunlamp yet?" Hank asked.

"Yeah, Rex got two yesterday. Last two at the hardware store. Supposed to be a new shipment coming in tomorrow. You get yours?"

Hank nodded and slowed the car, turning onto Charles Allen Drive. "I hear the schools are going to replace some of their overhead fluorescents with those new sun bulbs Titus is hawking."

"That's good. They're supposed to draw less electricity, too."

"Well, good thing it's winter and Mother Nature is in hibernation right now. Hopefully we can figure out how to bring the sun back before spring."

The time of year was one bright spot, but it had also been unseasonably warm ever since the darkness. Many things continued to grow, trees, shrubs, and grasses keeping their leaves and color. And that color was starting to fade ...

Hank parked the car against the curb, turned off the engine, and then proceeded to check his weapons. I did the same. It was a ritual at this point, but sometimes double checking or triple checking could save your life. Plus, it gave us both a moment of quiet time in which to switch gears into work mode.

The drizzle had turned to a fine mist, which did nothing to ease the faint sensations coursing through my body as I stepped onto the sidewalk and walked alongside the black cast-iron fence that enclosed the nymphs' territory.

It was quiet here, the sounds of the city drifting into the background and the streetlights giving off a dim, hazy glow. We stopped in front of the gate.

Fourteen-foot-tall iron bars spanned eight feet across, attached to enormous stone anchors. Not that a gate would keep out enemies. It was a statement. A line drawn in the sand. Cross it without permission or invitation and all bets were off--you might be risking life and limb.

About five years ago, the nymphs had purchased part of Piedmont Park. Their territory consisted of the eleven-acre Clara Meer Lake and all the land south and southeast--what used to be Oak Hill and the Meadows. Nearly a hundred acres of lake, meadows, and woodlands smack dab in the heart of the city--the perfect home for the only beings from Elysia born with the ability to shape-shift into animal form.