The Better Part of Darkness

shoulder, turning her attention to the small stack of DS games on her desk.

Emma and I had a pact. We always consulted each other before any major decisions were made. It was my way of making sure she felt included. “So … how would you feel if I took a desk job at the station instead of working out in the city?”

She turned, eyeballing me like I’d sprouted a shiitake mushroom on the tip of my nose. Then she walked over and placed her soft palm on my cheeks and forehead, testing for signs of illness.

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

She stepped back and put a hand on her hip. “Okay,” she said slowly, “and why would you want to quit your job?”

I returned her attitude-ridden look. It wasn’t like I was saying I wanted to move to Antarctica. “Because it would be safer that way, and I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Mom. If you do that, who’s gonna help Amanda?”

I blinked. My mouth opened but nothing came out. I’d promised to help Amanda, and I’d also promised myself I’d be a better mom and take a safer job. Two things that couldn’t exactly be accomplished at once. I rubbed my hands down my face and let out a deep breath.

“You can’t quit now. Amanda needs you.” Em straightened, bent one knee, and cocked her hip, giving me her best superhero pose—hands on hips, chin lifted, and eyes looking off into the distance. “Atlanta needs you. The very world itself might, one day, need you.”

Despite myself, I laughed. She giggled, blew a wild strand of hair from her eye, and then zipped the bag. When she turned to me, slinging the bag over her shoulder, she shrugged, pleased with her summation and logic. “Plus, Hank would never forgive you if you quit.” She waited by the door.

I stood, thrown by her reaction. I’d underestimated her, which was an easy thing to do when you didn’t want your kid to grow up. “Maybe after Amanda’s case then,” I said, more to myself.

“Mom” —she snapped the air a few times, feigning a teenager look and tone—“snap out of it.”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I muttered, following her bobbing form and swinging ponytail down the stairs, and wondering why her reaction hurt. Because she’s growing up. What did I expect, her to jump in my arms and cry grateful tears?

I padded barefoot through the kitchen, down the porch steps, and over the front yard, hurrying to catch up with her before she made it across the street. At the edge of the grass, I caught her around the waist. She squealed in fake protest as I laid several kisses on her cheek and neck. She might pretend to be too old for hugs and kisses, but she loved them just as much as I loved giving them. “Have fun,” I said close to her ear and then let her go. Laughing, she hurried around to the passenger side door.

Will slid into the truck and shut the door, leaning out of the open window. “We’ll talk later.”

I really wanted to respond with a “whatever,” but I nodded, reluctant to admit the feelings I still had for him.

His only intentional crime had been hiding his addiction to black crafting. All the other stuff had been out his control at that point. The real Will never would have made that bet, or cheated on me. And I knew he wasn’t crafting these days. Just like drug abuse or alcoholism, once one knew the symptoms and signs, it was easy to spot a black crafting addict. It left a weak scent of soot on them, like charred pieces left for years in an old, damp fireplace, and it left a trace of smut, of darkness, on a person. It surrounded them like an aura, but it was so faint it was hard to detect if you weren’t looking for it.

I stepped onto the front lawn, watching them drive down the street until the truck disappeared around the corner. Exhaustion fell over me like a heavy down comforter. It was only late afternoon and already my body wanted to shut down. It had been one hell of a day so far. Maybe with Em gone, I could actually get in a good nap before heading back to Underground later with Hank.

I made my way back inside the house and up the stairs.

In my bedroom, I stripped off my clothes and could smell Will everywhere, all over me. It felt good, which surprised me. I thought I’d feel something more along the lines of sadness and grief for what we’d lost, but I only felt comforted by the remnants of his presence.

Leaving on my underwear, I slipped under the covers, pulling them all around me, and snuggled down deep in the cool sheets.

Yeah, this was definitely what I needed.

The hospital morgue.

Two women were there. One on the cold, narrow table. And the other, a thought or conscience without form, hovering above, looking down at the sight with confusion and mild curiosity. That figure on the table was revolting. Gray, bruised, and beaten. Skull cracked open. Dead.

She, the one above, tried to remember by what. Was it a baseball bat? A crowbar? An iron staff?

The woman on the table was naked, covered to her armpits with a white sheet. She was a complete mess, but she hadn’t always been that way … She’d been pretty once. Had liked the shape of her breasts and her long legs. Liked the way her wavy mahogany hair brushed her lower back when she was naked. She liked the dimple when she smiled and the pouty lips that always drew men’s eyes. She’d been happy once.

Something tugged hard on the consciousness floating above the body, pulling her toward the ceiling. A light was there. But it was far, far away and before it swam shadows, darting in and out of the murkiness. She wondered if she could dodge the shadows without trial and pass into that soft, beckoning light.

No, no, she couldn’t go. Not yet.

She couldn’t remember why, but knew there was a reason, a monumental reason, why she couldn’t go.

Still, the light tugged.

Others came into the room. She could see their shapes but not their features; only the body on the table remained vivid and clear to her. They spoke, and it sounded as though the voices were underwater. She pulled away from the ceiling to hover closer.

“Can she be saved? She’s been gone for some time,” the tall figure said. He wore black. Perhaps it was hair, but it could’ve been a hood. She couldn’t tell. His voice, though muffled, was deep and powerful.

He was somebody. Somehow she knew this.

“If she can’t, then this won’t hurt her,” the other said. He was swathed in white. Perhaps it was a lab coat or a cloak, but he had no hood. His hair was brown, and he was tall, just not as tall as the other. “But if she can,” he said, “then all our work will be worth it.”

He pulled the white sheet to her waist, revealing her breasts, her startling injuries, and the bruises on her chest where they’d performed CPR. He turned her wrist, revealing the soft part of her arm. Then he stuck a needle into her vein.

The dark one smoothed her hair from her forehead, hair that was matted with blood. He whispered to her.

The light from behind pulled stronger. The shadows dipped and flew closer, crying out in screeching misery, though the volume was dulled by an unseen barrier.

The dark one looked up at the ceiling abruptly as though he sensed something there, but after a moment he turned his attention back to the woman.

The consciousness was caught suddenly in a tug of war; the light pulling her upward and the dead woman on the table pulling her down. Panicked, she fought against both.

“Now, we wait,” the white one said.

Amid the panic, she still knew she had to go back, had that reason, that thing just on the edge of her memory. And she was afraid of the shadows, afraid they’d get her before she could make it to the light. So she dove toward the body, away from the screams and cries of the shadows and away from the peace of the light.

And before she lost the sense of being separated, she realized as she melded with her body, that she’d just dove straight into hell.