Darkness Unbound (Dark Angels 1)

Better to try to get it over with than to sit here and fret, anyway.

I spun around and grabbed my backpack, shoving my spare clothes inside. Once I’d pulled on my jacket, I slung the pack across my back, then yelled, “I’m off. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“No, you won’t,” she said. “But I’ll tell Tao to have a Coke and burger ready for you when you do get home.”

Meaning she saw frustration in my future, because burgers were my food of choice when something was really pissing me off.

I grabbed my keys and headed back down to my bike. The morning traffic was rising toward its peak, so by taking the long way around the city, I actually arrived at the hospital close to eight. I parked in the nearby underground lot, then checked Mom’s text, grabbing the ward number and the parents’ names before heading inside.

It hit me in the foyer.

The dead, the dying, and the diseased created a veil of misery and pain that permeated not only the air but the very foundations of the building. It felt like a ton of bricks as it settled across my shoulders, and it was a weight that made my back hunch, my knees buckle, and my breath stutter to a momentary halt.

Not that I really wanted to breathe. I didn’t want to take that scent—that wash of despair and loss—into myself. And most especially, I didn’t want to see the reapers and the tiny souls they were carrying away.

I was gripped by the sudden urge to run, and it was so fierce and strong that my whole body shook. I had to clench my fists against it and force my feet onward. I’d promised Mom I’d do this, and I couldn’t go back on my promise. No matter how much I might want to.

I walked into the elevator and punched the floor for intensive care, then watched as the doors closed and the floor numbers slowly rolled by. As they opened onto my floor, a reaper walked by. She had brown eyes and a face you couldn’t help but trust, and her wings shone white, tipped with gold.

An angel—the sort depicted throughout religion, not those that inhabited the real world. Walking beside her, her tiny hand held within the angel’s, was a child. I briefly closed my eyes against the sting of tears. When I opened them again, the reaper and her soul were gone.

I took the right-hand corridor. A nurse looked up as I approached the desk. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Hanna Kingston.”

She hesitated, looking me up and down. “Are you family?”

“No, but her parents asked me to come. I’m Risa Jones.”

“Oh,” she said, then her eyes widened slightly as the name registered. “The daughter of Dia Jones?”

I nodded. People might not know me, but thanks to the fact that many of her clients were celebrities, they sure knew Mom. “Mrs. Kingston is a client. She asked for me specifically.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to check.”

I nodded again, watching as she rose and walked through the door that separated the reception area from the intensive care wards. Down that bright hall, a shrouded gray figure waited. Another reaper. Another soul about to pass.

I closed my eyes again and took a long, slow breath. I could do this.

I could.

The nurse came back with another woman. She was small and dark-haired, her sharp features and brown eyes drawn and tired looking.

“Risa,” she said, offering me her hand. “Fay Kingston. I’m so glad you were able to come.”

I shook her hand briefly. Her grief seemed to crawl from her flesh, and it made my heart ache. I pulled my hand gently from hers and flexed my fingers. The grief still clung to them, stinging lightly. “There’s no guarantee I can help you. She might have already made her decision.”

The woman licked her lips and nodded, but the brightness in her eyes suggested she wasn’t ready to believe it. Then again, what mother would?

“We just need to know—” She stopped, tears gathering in her eyes. She took a deep breath, then gave me a bright, false smile. “This way.”

I washed my hands, then followed her through the secure door and down the bright hall, the echo of our footsteps like a strong, steady heartbeat. The shrouded reaper didn’t look our way—his concentration was on his soul. I glanced into the room as we passed him. It was a boy about eight years old. There were machines and doctors clustered all around him, working frantically. There’s no hope, I wanted to say. Let him go in peace.

But I’d been wrong before. Maybe I’d be wrong again.

Three doorways down from the reaper, Mrs. Kingston swung left into a room and walked across to a dark-haired man sitting near the bed. I stopped in the doorway, barely even registering his presence as my gaze was drawn to the small form on the bed.

She was a dark-haired bundle of bones that seemed lost in the stark whiteness of the hospital room. Machines surrounded her, doing the work of her body, keeping her alive. Her face was drawn, gaunt, and there were dark circles under her closed eyes.