Free Darkness Becomes Her by Jaime Rush Page A

abilities? Pope lost his, too.”
    “Pope was court-martialed back in his dimension. They handcuffed his abilities, the deadly ones.” He started to move away. “I’m surprised they didn’t limit his ability to teletransport.”
    “Maybe he couldn’t escape the place where they were holding him. And what about your ability?”
    She saw pain in his expression and followed his gaze to a picture on the wall she hadn’t noticed before, a family picture.
    “When I astral-projected,” he said, “it was like going into REM sleep. My body was paralyzed.” His voice was low, each word pulled painfully from him. “I went back to the battle of Culloden, 1746. I acted out the battle along with the other Scots, fighting for Scottish freedom. I stabbed a Brit in the stomach. Someone tried to grab me, and I kept slashing until I . . . well, it was like waking straight out of a dream. The soldier I stabbed . . . it was my mum. I killed my mum.”
    She held in a gasp at those words. Only then did he meet her eyes, and she saw even more guilt than she’d just felt over Magnus.
    “Overusing our abilities can make us go mad. My father spent the last many years of his life working on an antidote to prevent psychosis. He felt responsible for those people getting that DNA, though he hadn’t done it on purpose. Afterward . . . after I went crazy, I took the antidote, and it stripped my abilities. Magnus took it, too, in case you’re worried. He was fine.”
    Was .
    She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m—”
    “Don’t say it. ‘Sorry’ means nothing. Believe me, I know.”
    “But what you did, it was an accident.”
    “My father warned me I was on the edge, to not astral-project anymore. But projecting was my escape, my entertainment. I became addicted to it. I am responsible.” He nodded into the room. “Do you need anything?”
    A hug. A touch. Her mouth parted, those words threatening to pop out. “A toothbrush. Soap.”
    He walked into the bathroom and looked through the cabinets. “Here’s a new toothbrush.” He set the package on the counter, along with a gnarled tube of toothpaste and a bottle. “Face soap. Nothing fancy.”
    “I don’t do fancy.” She couldn’t afford fancy.
    He set out a washcloth, too, and a small towel. “That should do you.”
    She nodded. “Thanks.”
    His footsteps echoed down the hall. She walked to the photo. It had been taken some years ago, when the boys were teenagers. Even then, Magnus was big and beefy; Lachlan was whip-lean, though still broad-shouldered. Their father had a shock of white hair and light eyes, their mother obviously the one they took their looks from.
    She touched the glass, thinking of the one family photo she had, tucked away in a safe place. Why had he told her so much? It was obviously painful, and he didn’t strike her as someone who shared his deepest feelings with anyone, much less a virtual stranger.
    Because he wants you to know what he is.
    Why hadn’t he mentioned the ability that had obviously not gone away? She shivered. He was dangerous in his own right.
    She stumbled to the shower. Maybe she’d wake up enough to drive home. Except that Russell was in town now, so staying here for one night, where it was safe, would be okay. She took a shower, losing herself in the feel of the hot water washing over her body. She ached, inside and out.
    Afterward she wrapped herself in a towel and realized she had no clothes for tomorrow other than her dirty, bloodied ones.
    Magnus’s blood. Because of you.
    She squeezed away the pain and eyed the dresser drawers. Maybe he’d left something behind.
    Every drawer was empty. Fine, she’d sleep in the nude as she usually did and find something in the morning. Or not. What if she had a nightmare and Lachlan came running in? Which reminded her . . .
    Wrapping the towel tight around her, she padded down the hall to the last door.
    “Lachlan?”
    She wanted to warn him she was coming, just in case, since