Darkness Falls (Dark Angels 7)

I marched up the steps and over to the door. The only noise coming from inside the house was the steady ticking of a clock. I had no sense of the evil Amaya said was there, but she was more finely tuned to all things hell than I was. I pressed the doorbell; the cheery sound seemed to echo for an abnormally long time but drew no response.

I rang it again, just to be sure, then retreated and followed the path to the rear of the house. Surprisingly, the gate into the backyard wasn’t locked, but I paused in the act of opening it and whistled softly, just in case there was something more substantial than magic protecting this place.

No dog came a-running, but I didn’t relax. I couldn’t, really. We were too close to the endgame now, and I very much doubted the warding-stone barrier would be the only thing protecting this place.

I drew Amaya and held her in front of me, like a shield. Lilac fire crawled down the edges of her steel, but the flames were restrained. She was holding her energy in check until needed.

The rear yard wasn’t huge, but there were so many trees and flowering shrubs crowded into the space that it felt like I was entering a different world—one that was cool, green, and rich with many scents. It was a space that very much reminded me of the greenhouse I’d stepped into when I’d used one of Lauren’s transport stones and found myself up on the Gold Coast.

Coincidence? I tended to think not.

The rear glass door was locked, and a quick look through it confirmed there was no one inside—or at least no one I could see. I double-checked that none of the neighbors were peering through the curtain of green, watching what I was doing, then shoved Amaya into the small gap between the frame and the door. In very little time, she had sheared through both the ordinary lock and the dead bolt.

I took a deep breath that did little to calm the butterflies going berserko in my stomach, then stepped inside the dark and silent house.

Chapter 8

Like most of these renovated terraces, the rear part of the house had become one big, open kitchen that also had plenty of room for a dining area. Amaya’s lilac flames cast a cool light across the white expanse of walls and kitchen cabinets but oddly gave the polished floorboards a richer, redder glow. I slid my shoes off so my footsteps didn’t echo, then carefully walked on. Beyond the soft ticking of a clock, the house was silent. But the still air was rich with a combination of leather and roses, the smells coming from both the furnishings and the various floral arrangements dotted around the room. There was no TV in this room, just a small kitchen table and a comfortable-looking sofa. Bookcases lined the wall to my left and were filled with hardcovers—some fiction, most not. Aside from the flowers, those books were the only spots of color in this otherwise white world.

I moved through the kitchen and up a couple of steps into the more formal dining area. There was a staircase to the right. I paused at its base, looking upward. There was a skylight at the top of the stairwell, but the moon hadn’t fully risen yet and there was little light shining through it. There was no sense of movement or life coming from the upper floors—and yet, there was something up there. I had no idea what it might be, but my skin crawled with awareness. Maybe it was the evil Amaya had sensed.

Not, she said. That ahead.

Oh. Great. I licked my lips and forced my feet on. The dining room, like the kitchen-diner, was expensively but sparsely furnished. In fact, there was very little in the way of decoration in this place—nothing beyond the furniture and the flower vases, anyway—and certainly nothing that hinted at the personality of the owner. It was almost a show home—although even show homes generally had a warmer feel than this place.

Beyond the dining room there was a small corridor and a gorgeous old grandfather clock. There were also two doors. One was the front door, so I reached for the doorknob of the other one. But as my fingers touched the metal, that sense of evil sharpened, its touch old and oddly putrid. I quickly released the doorknob and backed away.

What the fuck is in there, Amaya?

Sure not.

I frowned and glanced down at my hand. Though I couldn’t see anything, it felt as if a film of some kind had crawled from the knob to my skin. It was cold, wet—even though there was no moisture on my hand—and oddly reminded me of Mike’s grip when I’d shaken his hand.

Amaya, flame up. When she did so, I added, I want you to burn whatever it is I have on my hand.

I stuck my palm against her blade, and her flames crawled around my fingertips, their touch light, warm, and tingly.

After a moment, she said, Taste foul.

Is it magic or something else?

Not hell magic. She paused. Of this place.

Meaning the stuff is from Earth, or it’s simply not dark magic?

Latter. Witch, not blood.

If it was witch magic, did that mean Lauren was nearing the end of her strength limits? All magic had its costs, but the price of blood magic was apparently far higher, and Lauren hadn’t exactly been cautious about its use of late.

Is it the same sort of magic that waits in that room?

No.

I frowned at the door for a minute, then realized I didn’t actually have to go anywhere near the door or whatever magic had been placed on it to find out what lay beyond it. I took a step forward, raised Amaya, and thrust her into the middle of the door. There was a moment of resistance—from the magic rather than the door—then her steel was through.

What can you see now? I asked.

She hesitated. Evil.