Page 92 of Darkness

Morrisey’s favorite kind.

He stroked faster, imagining every moan, every slide of skin against skin, or brush of lips over his face.

“Oh, damn! I’m coming!” Morrisey groaned out his release, pulsing into his hand, muscles clenching and relaxing. A few straggling aftershocks rocked him, causing more moans. Every muscle relaxed, and he sprawled, sated and breathing hard, on his old worn couch.

Exhaling and inhaling slowly brought him down from his orgasmic high, calming his wildly pounding heart. He opened his eyes to find cum on his belly and no Farren in sight. “It was good while it lasted.”

He yanked his T-shirt off and wiped up the mess, heart a little achy with the need for Farren.

A shower sobered Morrisey sufficiently for him to stand under the spray, deciding on changes needed in his life. 1. Quit drinking. 2. Quit smoking. 3. Eat better. Will would’ve rejoiced at being proven right.

Later, lying in bed, Morrisey relived the memories of Farren, lost in the hazy moments between wakefulness and sleep.

He jolted upright. What was that noise?

“Ah, Tenebris, I wondered when you might join us.”

Morrisey barely caught movement in the dark before a sharp stab hit his neck.

“Wha—?”

All went dark.

Chapter Thirty

Too bad Farren didn’t have access to records from Domus. If Morrisey was indeed a traveler, there might be some significance to why someone chose him to cross the gulf into the human world instead of executing him for being Tenebris. No one really took the realm’s shrinking seriously back then, so maybe Morrisey’s otherworldly parents had some sort of advanced knowledge or simply protected their offspring.

But who’d surrender their spawn, an unheard-of act? Then again, even the most protective of parents would have followed the law and reported a Tenebris child. Wouldn’t they? Especially knowing their volatile tendencies. Tenebris were destroyers, highly dangerous if not paired with a Lux. While Farren might not have access to Domus’s history, someone else might.

The ride from Atlanta didn’t take long. More time would be better before facing a bittersweet memory. Each mile added more weight to Farren’s heart. Colm might not even be around. Guilt hit hard. Farren should have at least checked on Colm for sentiment’s sake, if nothing else.

GPS directed Farren to turn off the interstate onto a secondary road, then turn again at a gravel drive. He slowed the compound’s assigned car to a crawl to avoid potholes in a neglected drive. Pine saplings on either side brushed at the doors. Didn’t look like many people came here. Farren didn’t know whether he’d be sad or relieved to find the house abandoned. His feelings for Colm were… mixed.

Farren entered a clearing with an old log cabin that had somehow grown ten years shabbier in five years. A rusted Chevy pickup sat in front of the house. No other signs of life, though.

A riot of wildflowers grew in haphazard patches around the clearing, contributing contrasting color to the white blooms of a towering magnolia tree.

Farren sat inside his vehicle, trying to bolster his courage. What if Colm wouldn’t even see him? No use in putting off the inevitable. The blankets hanging over the front windows didn’t move. Quiet. Not so much as a squirrel or bird in sight.

Creepy.

Farren forced himself from the car and up the three uneven stone steps to the front porch. The air smelled crisp, with no hint of car exhaust, cooking food, or any other smells like he’d find in the city. Instead, fresh pine and honeysuckle filled his senses. The peace reminded him of his former home, the life he’d had…

The comparison ended there. Kele would never have allowed their home to appear so shabby.

The left side of a porch swing hung precariously by one chain, the opposite end on the floor. Moss grew on rotting plank floorboards. Farren breathed deeply, steadying himself before knocking. He really should have kept in touch. There was no reason not to, except… During his early days with the FBI, Farren tried to avoid other travelers to convince the humans he wasn’t part of some planned alien invasion.

Especially travelers with Colm’s skills.

Farren’s first knock went unanswered. He tried again.

On the third try, the door opened onto a craggy, haggard face. Colm wore faded jeans and nothing else, bare toes peeking from beneath fraying hems. He’d lost weight—or rather, his host had. His graying hair hung limply to his shoulders, his straggly beard gray to match.

After a moment, recognition flared in Colm’s eyes, and possibly the tiniest hint of welcome. Must be Farren’s imagination.

“I knew you’d be back someday, Aluxi.” The man who went by Colm Tate had visibly aged since their last meeting, unusual for a traveler. “You came all this way. May as well come in.” He stepped back, waving his hand in a dramatic “enter” gesture.

Farren entered the small cabin, nearly tripping on a gray tabby cat insisting on twining around his ankles. A snow-white feline perched upon the dingy couch, deeply engrossed in the hygiene of its nether regions via tongue bath. The interior was equally as shabby as the exterior. “You still have cats, I see.”

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