Free Darkness Brutal (The Dark Cycle Book 1) by Rachel A. Marks

grunts. “I’ll get over it.”
    I shake my head. “Fine, come if you want. But know that I can tell when you’re lying.”
    She gapes at me again, but follows. If she thinks I’m scary, it’ll be interesting to see her reaction when she meets Ava.

EIGHT
    It turns out that when Sid said Kara should go with me, he meant she’d drive me. She waves for me to follow her through the kitchen, out the back door, across a long yard. We walk on a dirt pathway through tall weeds—obviously Sid is more concerned with the way the house looks from the front than from the back. A few cans of paint are stacked up beside an old bed frame that rests against a shed.
    Earlier, Connor said something about Sid going out to “the shed” to do something. My feet slow a little as I study the small structure. Three heavy padlocks latch it tight, and there’s a small circular symbol of power in red paint at the center of the whitewashed door. It’s a symbol I don’t recognize, but I know instantly that it’s a lock all its own—an anchor, keeping everything inside the structure tied to this plane. Grounded . What the hell would that be needed for?
    My mouth goes dry as realization settles in. Casting. Casting magic is performed in that crooked shack. I can’t tell from here what type of power is being used, but my stomach feels uneasy anyway.
    Kara shouts from the end of the yard, “We need to get this done.”
    I turn away from the questions I don’t want to ask about my new benefactor and follow Kara into the garage.
    It takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dark. When they do, my jaw drops at the two gorgeous, shiny cars and the motorcycle.
    Kara walks beside the closest vehicle, a sleek black Camaro—probably a ’67 or ’68.
    I can’t help smiling as I take it in. “This is your car?”
    “I wish.” She pets the hood, her fingers sliding along the new paint job.
    Once we get in, it’s obvious the whole thing’s been refurbished, from the leather bucket seats to the eight-track player holding a blue tape that says The Carpenters on one side.
    My smile grows as we back out of the garage, the engine rumbling around us. I don’t have to walk, or skate, or ride the heinous bus. It’s perfection. I call Ava, but she doesn’t answer. My guess is that she’s still at her music lessons. I hang up without leaving a message and text her a zero. She’ll know that means I’m on my way to find her: time’s up.
    “My sister’s in the summer arts program at Saint Catharine’s Academy,” I say. The Carpenters in the tape deck are singing about birds and love. “Is there something else to listen to? Do you maybe have anything from this millennium?”
    Kara snorts. “Wow. Bashing the jam. Not cool, sir.” She pops the eight-track tape out, silencing the groovy bell-bottom orgy. “For your information, Betsy runs better with The Carpenters in her deck.”
    “Betsy. The car has a name.”
    Kara pulls into the traffic and puts an earbud back in. “Every car has a name. You just have to find it.”
    I laugh. “Really. What’s that one’s name?” I point at a white van ahead of us.
    She shakes her head. “You can’t seriously expect me to know a stranger’s name. I’d have to hang with the thing, get to know it.”
    I watch her profile, the way her chin juts as she speaks, like she’s defending her gift of naming cars. “I see,” I say, deciding to play along. “I’m not a car, but maybe you can guess my name.” ’Cause, weirdly enough, I realize it hasn’t come up yet, not even during that whole meeting with Sid.
    She looks sideways at me, like she didn’t realize it either until I mentioned it.
    “I know we haven’t really hung out yet,” I say, “but we have, um . . . connected.”
    She smirks—almost a smile.
    It’s quiet for a second. Then I say, “So it’s more of a vehicular naming power, then?”
    She stays silent, but her smirk is definitely a smile now, and warmth fills my