The Darkest Star (Origin 1)

I thought about the raid at the club and the Luxen hidden in the room—the Luxen who’d seemed terrified of me. I promptly changed the channel, settling on a show about people who hoard all kinds of things in their home.

“I cannot watch this.” Mom shook her head. “It makes me want to start organizing things.”

Rolling my eyes, I looked around our living room—at our painfully organized living room. Everything had a place, which usually involved a basket—a white or gray basket. The entire house was that way, so how could Mom organize more? Baskets by size? Color?

But Mom was totally going to watch this. Just like me. We couldn’t help ourselves. These kinds of shows were like crack.

Picking up a drink, I stilled when I heard a weird sound, something I couldn’t quite place. I put my drink aside, looking over my shoulder and into the foyer. The whole bottom floor was open, one room flowing into another with the exception of Mom’s office, which was a closed door accessed from the entryway. Sunlight filtered in through the narrow windowpanes on either side of the front door.

Not seeing anything, I started to face the TV again when I thought I saw a shadow move in front of a window. I frowned. “Hey, Mom.”

“What, hon?”

The shadow by the window appeared again. “I think . . . someone is at the door.”

“Huh.” She rose. “We shouldn’t be getting a delivery. . . .” She trailed off as the handle turned left and then right, as if someone were trying to open the door.

What the . . . ?

My gaze shot to the security keypad on the foyer wall, confirming what I already knew. The alarm wasn’t set. It rarely was during the day, but the door was locked—

The bottom lock turned, unlocking as if someone had used a key.

“Mom?” I whispered, unsure if I was seeing what I was seeing.

“Evie, I need you to get up.” Her voice was surprisingly flat and calm. “Now.”

I’d never moved faster in my life. Backing up, I bumped into the gray ottoman as Mom quickly stepped around me. I expected her to go to the door, but she moved to where I’d been sitting. She yanked one of the pillows off the back of the couch and then pulled a cushion up.

Mom took out a gun—a freaking shotgun—from underneath the couch cushion. My mouth dropped open. I knew we had guns in the house. Mom was in the military. Duh. But hidden under a couch cushion where I sat and napped and ate cheesy puffs?

“Stand behind me,” she ordered.

“Oh my God, Mom!” I stared at her. “I’ve been sitting on a shotgun this entire time? Do you know how dangerous that is? I can’t—”

The deadbolt unlocked, the click echoing like thunder. I took another step back. How . . . how was that possible? No one could unlock the deadbolt from the outside. That could only be unlocked from inside.

Mom lifted the shotgun, aiming straight at the door. “Evelyn,” she barked out. “Get behind me now.”

I darted around the couch, moving to stand behind her. On second thought, I whipped around and grabbed a candleholder—the new wooden gray-and-white one I’d wanted to take pictures of later. Not sure exactly what I was going to do with said candleholder, but gripping it like a baseball bat sure made me feel better. “If someone is breaking in, shouldn’t we call the police? I mean, that seems like the nonviolent way of dealing with this, and the police can help—”

The front door then swung open and someone tall and broad stepped inside, their features and form blurred out by the sun for a moment. Then the door swung close, slamming shut without anyone touching it, and the glow from the sun was gone.

I almost dropped the candleholder.

It was him.

Luc stood in my foyer, smiling like my mother wasn’t aiming a shotgun at his face—his pretty face. He didn’t glance at me. Not once as he inclined his head. “Hey, Sylvia. Long time no see.”

My heart pounded erratically as my gaze bounced between the two. He knew my mom? Where I lived?

Mom lifted her chin. “Hello, Luc.”9

For a moment I didn’t think I moved or breathed as I stared at Mom, dressed in a robe and fuzzy kitten slippers, holding a damn shotgun, and Luc, wearing a shirt that read DILL WITH IT, and there was a pickle underneath the words, wearing . . . sunglasses?

Yep. Sunglasses.

I was still gripping my candleholder. “You know him, Mom?”

That half grin appeared on Luc’s face. “Sylvia and I go way back, don’t we?”

What?

The shotgun in Mom’s hands didn’t shake once. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by for lunch.” He took a step forward. “Was hoping I’d get a home-cooked meal.”