Race the Darkness (18 page)

A raindrop pattered against her arm, another one on the top of her head. All around, hundreds of drops splattered against the grass, the leaves, but one sound wasn't natural. The hollow thunking of rain against polished wood.
No, no, no.
She was not going to think about that.

A spike of thunder split the sky, the unexpectedness of it jolting her body. Xander tightened his grip on her, as if assuring her with his actions that he would protect her. But a fine, barely perceptible trembling traveled through his arms, up to his shoulders, and down his chest, until even the skin underneath her cheek twitched.

Something was wrong with Xander. She clenched her eyes shut, scrunched her face up, and held on tight to him. She couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't open her eyes, or talk to him. It was dangerous out there. But what if the danger wasn't just to her? What if Xander was in danger? Because of her?

A low serrated growl rolled across the sky. Xander wheezed in a breath of air, his lungs expanding, then contracting so violently her body rocked against his. What had been a gentle trembling morphed into full-on violent quivering of muscle. The light of realization went on inside her brain.

They were in a storm. He had said he'd been struck by lightning.

“Xander?” Her voice was drowned out by another crack of thunder.

She tried to pull out of his hold to see him, but his grip was steel. “Xander. Let me go.” Panic—not for herself, for him—edged into her tone. Her eyes shot open. “Xan—”

“Baby?” He didn't let go of her, just gave her room to pull back and see his face. His face was the color of milk, his scars the color of blood, and his eyes were an unnameable color that could only be described as tortured. “You're back.”

“Are you all right?” She raised her hand to his cheek, needing to sooth the angry scars.

At her touch, he turned his face into her palm. “You're asking if I'm all right?” His voice was thick, and he seemed to struggle to speak at all. “Are
you
all right?” Keeping one arm around her, he gestured to the side.

She didn't want to look, but her eyes moved before she could stop them. What they saw, she could never un-see. They stood next to the jaws of an open grave. Gran's grave. Inside that exquisite box lay Gran's body.

Right after they'd been taken, she and Gran had fought for each other, fought to keep one another safe and sane, but when Gran's mind had started going, Isleen had battled alone. Always struggling to protect Gran, to keep her alive for when they were rescued. For when they could start living again. But now, her fight was over. She had failed. Gran was dead. And it was all because of her.

You are the Dragon, a vile beast set upon this earth by the foulest of demons. Your evil will corrupt all. You will slay everyone you love. It is your nature.
Queen's words rose up out of the pit of buried memory and echoed through Isleen's mind. She'd never believed Queen until now. Until this moment of truth.

She'd watched the man pour that poison into Gran's mouth. Had watched Gran die. And had done nothing.

Her throat opened, and a wild mix of anguish, grief, and guilt spewed out of her in a sound so primal even the storm around them seemed to diminish under the immensity of her pain. A tornado of bad memories swirled around her, only there wouldn't be a rainbow-colored Oz after this cyclone. There would be nothing left of her but the bad memories. She wouldn't survive if she had to remember
everything
. It was too much. Too much. Too much. She beat the sides of her head with her fists.

“Stop. Right now!” Xander's voice cut through the anguish at the same time his hands grabbed her wrists and forced them down to her sides. She tried to slam her head against his chest—physical pain being so much easier to deal with than the memories. He yanked her fully against him pinioning her arms at her sides and holding her tight. “I know what you're trying to do. You need to
feel
this.”

“I can't. IcantIcantIcant…” Everything she never wanted to remember was right there in front of her mind's eye, and this time she couldn't escape. Grief stole her breath. Regret broke her heart. Guilt shattered her into a thousand tiny shards.

Reality and its repercussions tore Isleen away from sleep's sacred oblivion. There was no moment of confusion between drowsing and waking. Nope. It was all right there with one horrifying memory ruling them all.

She lay on the couch where Xander had settled them after they'd gotten back from Gran's grave. Directly across from her, a wide window opened onto a swath of yard, sloping down into an enchanting thicket of trees where wood fairies and mythical creatures ought to live. Overhead, the sky was an elusive shade of blue more translucent and gossamer than any color created by man. This place was all so magical and majestic and, for her, temporary.

Because she remembered.

Everything.

She remembered every terrifying act done to Gran, done to her. Her body remembered the pain. And her soul echoed with the memory of Gran's death. The horrifying memory of watching the priest pour the poison into Gran's mouth and being forced to witness Gran's life and love and possibility die.

And Isleen had done nothing except watch. She should've done something. Should've forced her body to intervene. If only she'd tried harder.

When she had first remembered, the agony of her lack of action had been unbearable, but she'd survived. Because of Xander. He hadn't let her go, and by the simple action of holding her tight, he'd glued all her shattered pieces together. So instead of being broken, she only felt fragile.

Salt crust from yesterday's torrent of tears gritted in her eyes. She didn't bother to rub away the grime. She'd cried herself to sleep in the safety of Xander's arms. He infused her with strength and injected her with courage. She inhaled a lungful of bravery, then held her breath. Nothing in the future could be as bad as what lived in her memory. Small consolation, but still a consolation. She exhaled all cowardice.

“Baby?” Xander's nickname for her warmed her in even the coldest places.

She turned away from the view outside to see him coming toward her, carrying a glass of water, and suddenly the comforting warmth turned into a bonfire of shame. When he found out she'd just watched Gran die… What if he already knew?

Her gaze locked on the clear liquid gently sloshing as he approached her. She pulled herself upright, continuing to stare at the glass. This was no time for denial and avoidance. It was time for honesty. Could she handle the look of condemnation on his face when he found out?

She'd just keep breathing, and that would keep her heart pumping. Basic system functioning would remain intact. Right? She forced herself to look him in the face.

“How'd you sleep?” Xander asked, holding the glass out to her. “No dreams? No nightmares?”

She heard him talking, but her brain wasn't linking meaning to his words. It was busy memorizing each detail of him for when she lost him. His scars wound up out of his shirt, over his neck, up his cheek then alongside his temple and flared out over half his forehead. They were stunning in a way that wasn't meant for words. She hoped Camille—his perfect, gorgeous girlfriend—loved his scars as much as she did.

Not knowing what to say, she nabbed the glass out of Xander's hand and began drinking. The water tasted sweet and refreshing, and she greedily slurped it down, not realizing how thirsty she was until the first satisfying swallow.

“Slow down. It's not a chugging contest. Don't want you getting sick.”

She drained the last drop. “Wow. You have the best water.” She gasped for air, having forgotten to breathe while drinking.

“There's plenty more where that came from. Come on, you need some food too.”

He offered her a hand. No way was she going to resist an opportunity to touch him. His skin was warm and reassuring. More than anything, she wanted to step into him, have him wrap his arms around her and absorb into him, until she was hidden in the center of him where no one and nothing could find her or hurt her ever again.

He tugged her up to standing and guided her to his kitchen table, where he let go of her to pull out a chair. “How are you feeling?”

“Yesterday was a bad day. Today will be better.”

“Every day will be better than yesterday. I promise you that. Now, eat.” He set a giant cinnamon roll in front of her. “It's a day old, but still better than the best you can buy. Another of Row's specialties.”

The roll smelled of cinnamon and sugar and cozy memories from her childhood. Memories of her and Gran, and good and happy times before their world revolved around pain. “Looks delicious.” She forked up a bite. Her taste buds had a mini party, but she couldn't enjoy it. She ate another bite and another.

Xander got a gallon of milk out of the fridge and poured her a glass. He was so thoughtful. So kind. Especially after everything he'd had to go through because of her. To him she had to be a pain in the backside.

But she wanted—oh, how she wanted—this to be her life. Something as simple as sitting across the table from him and eating cinnamon rolls together was all she'd ever need.

“You're looking at me funny.” The sides of his mouth tilted up into a smile, and she almost stopped breathing. Normally, his face was all hard angles, accentuated by the scars, but his smile softened everything and made his eyes sparkle like gold. She resisted the urge to crawl over the table to him and press her lips to his.

“Thank you for…I guess everything. Saving us. Putting up with me. Being there for me yesterday.” If these few moments with Xander were the only moments she'd have with him, she'd store them in a special place in her mind. For the rest of her life, she'd remember them as the times when she had felt the most alive.

“I was…” His voice trailed off, and he looked over her head a moment as if what he wanted to say was in a bubble cloud. “I guess the word would be
compelled
. I was compelled to find you. There's no need to thank me. I would never leave you when you needed me. I can tell you're better today.”

“I am. I just feel a bit delicate and…”

When she didn't finish, he reached across the table and grasped her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. His touch was affectionate and full of reassurance, and just like yesterday, she could practically feel herself getting stronger.

“And what?” he asked softly.

Might as well be honest with him about what really happened. Her chin quivered so hard she wouldn't have been surprised if it fell off her face and flopped around on the table like a dead fish. Her throat constricted, imprisoning the words she needed to say. She forced herself to look at him while she spoke of her deepest shame. “Guilty. I'll never stop feeling guilty over Gran's death.” Her vision went wet and watery. A tear from each eye raced each other down her cheeks. She had thought there were no more tears to cry, but obviously she'd been wrong.

The entire story overflowed the dam she'd built around it. Her words were fast and rushed as she told him what had happened—everything—and she didn't dare look at him until she'd said it all. “Xander, I-I watched her die and did nothing.” The words jumbled out of her mouth, mixing with the sound of a sob.

“What?” The word exploded into the room. Her heart startled from the suddenness of it. His grip on her hand went almost painful. “Baby, it wasn't your fault. You couldn't help it.”

Sincerity dominated his features. Which only made this all the harder.

“I watched him pour that poison in her mouth. And I didn't stop him.” Saying it out loud, hearing her own words, hurt like a dull, serrated blade sawing and sawing until it finally tore deep enough to open a vein. After a moment, the pain eased, then dulled, and she felt oddly lighter. Maybe that was because he hadn't let go of her hand. Maybe it was because his expression hadn't changed. She had expected revulsion. Disgust. Aversion. Not him gently squeezing her hand and his eyes softening with compassion. Compassion? Huh?

“That's not exactly what happened.” He enunciated each word clearly as if her merely hearing him would change reality.

“Oh, Xander. I don't have the energy to argue with you over it. I
know
what happened.”

He reached across the table with his free hand and brushed his fingers through the tear streaks on her cheek. His fingertips were rough against her skin, the friction so sweet and fierce her heart swelled with longing for more of him.

“You are wrong. I'll prove it to you.” Without letting go of her hand, he pulled his phone from his jeans pocket, hit a button, and held it to his ear. “Yeah. I need a copy of my interrogations of Simon Smith and William Goodspeed.”

“Goodspeed?” She blurted out the name. “You interrogated him?” Was it the same Mr. Goodspeed? Why had Xander interrogated him?

“Hold on.” Xander spoke into the phone and then turned his full attention on her. “I'm an interrogation expert for the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”

“Oh…” How did she not know that? Another emotion joined her guilt—curiosity. Xander had interrogated Mr. Goodspeed? Before he killed everyone? The coincidence of it was a bit surprising, but what did that have to do with Gran?

“I'm back.” He listened for a moment. “Of course I need them right now. As in right this goddamned second.” Xander's tone was about two levels lower than mere nasty. “It's for Isleen. She needs to see them to understand what's going on.” There was a slight pause while he listened. “Are you fucking kidding me? This isn't junior high. Jesus fucking Christ. Kent says to tell you hi, and that he and Killer will be stopping by tonight for a visit.”

Despite her guilt and curiosity, despite the confession she needed to give to Kent, just thinking about Killer's sweet little doggy face lightened her mood and stretched her mouth into a smile. And here she had been thinking she'd never smile again.

“Tell him I said hi, and that I can't wait to see them both.”

Xander rolled his eyes so far back in his head she thought they might get lost in his brain cavity. “You heard her, right? Yeah. She's better. A lot better. She's even smiling.” His voice softened, and his gaze was warm when it landed on her. “Just send the files.” He ended the call.

“Why are you so mean to him?”

“He's an asshole.”

“So are you.”

He chuckled. “Damn. I guess you really are feeling better.”

“Kent tried to help me. Told me I needed to talk about things before I destroyed my future. He was right. If I had actually talked about what happened, maybe Gran would still be alive.”

“I think you're confused about what's real. And I'm about to prove it to you.” He seemed so sincere that she wanted to believe him, but her memory wouldn't lie. Would it? “I need to explain what you're about to see.” His hand around hers squeezed, then released—almost a quick imploring for her understanding. “Being struck by lightning did more than just scar me up. It supercharged my hearing, and now when I'm around people, my brain connects to their frequency and I can hear what they are thinking.”

She stared at him, knowing her mouth was hanging open a bit, and yet not being able to close it as her own brain struggled to understand his words. What he was telling her seemed impossible, but that didn't matter. She believed him as truly as if it were her truth, not his. And that meant—oh gosh. Oh no. “So you've been hearing my thoughts from the moment we met?”

“Well…no. I don't know what makes you different. Sometimes when I'm not near you, I can hear you—like when you were in that trailer. But when I am near you like right now, I can't hear you at all.”

“Thank God!” The words spilled from her lips before her brain could censor them. How mortifying would it have been if he knew exactly how she thought about him sometimes?

He chuckled. “That bad, huh?”

“No, not at all. Just the opposite.”

“When I'm near you, I can still hear other people's thoughts, but it doesn't hurt like it normally does. For the first time, I can control it, censor it so it's not overwhelming. And I think I know why—” His phone buzzed and he looked at the screen. “Got it. Here. Watch this.” He held the phone between them so they could both see the screen. “This is my interrogation of Simon Smith.”

On the screen, the door to the interrogation room opened and the bushy-faced, scruffy-haired troll from under the culvert shuffled into the room. Fear froze her voice. She pointed at the screen with the hand Xander wasn't holding and finally found the ability to speak. “That's him. That's him. He stabbed the girl in the park. That's him.”

“I know. His name is Simon Smith, and he really did kill Courtney Miller in the exact way you said it happened.”

Isleen's attention fully locked on Xander having a one-way conversation with Simon Smith. Nothing about Xander's interview was normal. None of it made sense; none of it was logical. It mostly looked like he was having a chat with himself.

Xander didn't speak until the video clip ended. “He didn't know you. He didn't know Queen. He didn't know anything about the trailer you were held in. Didn't even recognize the road number. Courtney Miller's time of death was placed in the exact time frame while you were still in the hospital.”

“But I was there. I saw it happen.”

“You are right. And wrong.”

He tapped the phone's screen and another video came on.

A man sat hunched over a table, his close-shaved head bowed so she couldn't see his face, but she instantly recognized him. “Mr. Goodspeed. He killed Marissa and his wife and son.”

“No. He didn't.”

“He did.” Her words were firm. “I watched him do it.”

“What you saw wasn't real.”

“What do you mean, it wasn't real? I was right there.”

“No, you weren't. You were here. What you saw was the future. What would have happened if your information hadn't stopped him.”