Darkness Becomes Her by Jaime Rush Page A

That was the good news. The bad? Jessie couldn’t sleep, at least not the deep kind. The bright moonlight wasn’t helping, spilling in through the French doors and washing over her bed. She got up, and her gaze went to the courtyard. In the silvery, two-dimensional light, trees and statues seemed surreal. It looked cold, too, as though she’d woken in another world—another dimension. Like walking through the closet in the Narnia books.
    Could she really believe that something in Lachlan, in her, came from a parallel dimension?
    Which means you’re not harboring a demon inside you.
    So yes, she could believe. She would believe anything to put that horrible notion in its grave. But even Pope didn’t know what Darkness was.
    She unlocked the door and opened it. Cold air washed in, slapping her cheeks and frosting her nostrils. They were fortunate that the weather was on a warming trend, but it was probably around forty degrees out now. She’d been watching the temps all week because of the carnival. The hazards of having one in March, but that’s when the vendors could afford to do it for charity.
    She pulled on her pants and shoes but couldn’t find where she’d tossed her shirt. Turning on the light would be too bright and harsh. Her coat was somewhere in the house. She went to the closet and found the coat she’d seen earlier, one of Magnus’s, no doubt. The plaid, fleece-lined coat absolutely buried her, but in a comforting way. She stepped outside, closing the door behind her.
    Someone had put little signs amidst the foliage, though she couldn’t read the words. The moonlight felt good on her face, and she lifted her chin and soaked in the sun’s distant reflection.
    She continued walking along the flagstone path. In the corner, a large angel statue reached skyward. She wanted to believe in angels, in things that protected you, loved you. All she’d seen was death, Darkness. Maybe angels didn’t protect and love aberrations like her. She turned away, but knew she could never turn away from what she was.
    A few steps later another statue made her heart jump into her throat. A man, sitting in a meditative position on the flagstones, palms up, on his bare thighs. He couldn’t be real, because no human would be sitting out in the cold wearing only shorts. Why was her heart still thrumming, then?
    She tiptoed closer, saw that his eyes were closed. His long hair poured over his naked shoulders. Shoulders that trembled.
    Lachlan.
    He didn’t open his eyes but said, “Go back inside. It’s cold out here.”
    “Uh . . . yeah . Which begs the question, why are you sitting out here half naked on the cold flagstones?”
    “It’s just something I do. I have a routine. Now, go. Leave me alone.”
    Those last words dug into her, like the beak of a raven digging into the pulpy flesh of an orange. She turned and took several steps away. Her feet slowed with each step, as though there was a rubber band around her, him, and she could not walk any farther. He was watching her. She saw the effort it took him to turn and close his eyes.
    Something about him sitting there pulled at her, tearing her own heart. You see his loneliness, and it’s a mirror of your own. The way he shuts you out, a mirror of the way you shut out others.
    Because I have to, she told the voice inside her that loved to point out what she held, and hid, deep inside. Her conscience, she guessed, always poking at her wounds.
    She could figure herself out pretty well, at least the parts she knew. Magnus, she pegged as a flirt, daring, comfortable in his good looks and charm, living for the moment.
    Lachlan wasn’t easy to peg. Fierce, determined, but driven not by rage. She thought of his bare room, the refrigerator lacking anything of real substance or pleasure. He’d shut off those desires. The realization struck her in the chest. He was punishing himself.
    She walked back to him. He kept his eyes closed, though she could see them twitching beneath